Wags  of  the  Stage 


EDITION  DE  LUXE 


Wags  of  the  Stage 

by 

Joseph   Whitton 


How  now,  mad  wag ! — Henry  IV. 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE    H.     RIGBY 

1902 


',  »     »       »  i  i 

if-*  f 


Copyright,  1902,  by  Joseph  Whitton. 


Harper   &    Brother   Company,    Printers. 


*•  ♦   .' . 


" »       '    .    .  ► , 


This  Edition  is  limited  to  Hve 

hundred  copies,  of  which  this  is 

No.       Ci 


'^ 


PUBLISHER'S  PREFACE. 


While  the  players  may  he,  as  Hamlet  says, 
"The  abstract  and  brief  chronicles  of  the 
time,"  yet  they  are  something  more.  They 
serve  as  time-killers  and  care-quellers  for 
humanity,  to  prod  the  tedium  of  our  idle 
hours,  and  quell  the  worries  that  may  rise 
from  out  our  busy  ones. 

Many  of  the  players  in  the  past  have  been 
accomplished  wags,  and  the  rehearsal  of  their 
waggery  is  worthy  the  book  which  Mr.  Whit- 
ton  has  written.  His  half -century's  intimacy 
with  the  Stage  and  its  people  has  furnished 
him  with  the  material,  and  zvhile  the  greater 
part  of  this  zvill  be  new  to  his  readers,  that 
zvhich  they  may  recognize  as  old  will  be,  per- 
haps, none  the  less  pleasing  in  the  new  dress 
with  which  he  has  clothed  it. 

G.  H.  R. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Author's  Introduction xi 

Junius  Brutus  Booth   I 

John  Brougham   12 

Peter  Richings    19 

William  Rufus  Blake 23 

Edwin   Forrest    27 

William  E.  Burton   36 

John  Drew  44 

William  J.  Florence   49 

"Mr.  Jones"  57 

H.  L.  Bateman   68 

Sam.    Hemple    72 

P.  T.  Barnum  80 

Charles   M.   Barras    87 

Edward  A.  Sothern  91 

James  Quin   108 

Samuel   Foote    121 

William  Wheatley  and  an  Episode  of  Nicaraguan 

Life 137 


THE  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 


The  Stage  might  justly  be  called  "A 
School  for  Wags."  No  other  profession  has 
turned  so  many  of  them  loose  upon  the 
world,  and  none  other  has  so  sharpened  the 
shafts  of  waggery.  Whether  the  world  is 
thankful  for  this,  or  would  be  better  pleased 
to  ha\-e  the  actor  drop  his  waggishness  and 
stick  to  the  "sock  and  buskin,"  is  a  question 
which  the  world  itself  has  answered.  While 
it  has  hitherto  remembered  his  triumph  on 
the  stage,  it  has  not  forgotten  the  play  of  his 
humor  off  of  it.  Each  has  its  record  in  the 
story  of  his  life,  and  both  are  essential  to  its 
completeness. 

The  players  whose  waggery  is  chronicled 
in  the  following  pages  have  all  passed  away. 
They  no  longer  "strut  and  fret  their  hour" 
upon  any  stage — save  that  mysterious  one 
where  they,  and  all  the  world,  must  play 
their  measured  part.  J.  W. 


JUNIUS    BRUTUS    BOOTH. 
From  the  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


Junius  Brutus  Booth. 

JUNIUS    BRUTUS    was    the  father  of 
Edwin.     No  tragedian  of  his  day  had 
greater  fame,  and  none,  perhaps,  had  greater 
physical  impediments  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
its  endurance.     UnHke  his  son,  he  possessed 
no  graceful  form  to  catch  the  eye,  and — at 
the  time  I  saw  him — no  tuneful  voice  to  cap- 
tivate the  ear.     He  was   short  of  stature, 
with  a  pair  of  unsymmetric  bow-legs,  and 
spoke  with  a  nasal  twang — tolerable  enough 
in    Shakspere's    gravedigger,    or    Launcelot 
Gobbo,  but  strangely  out  of  place  in  Hamlet 
or  Shylock.     However,  in  the  earlier  part  of 
his  career  there  was  melody,  and  a  great  deal 
of    it,    in    his    voice,    but    he    was    unlucky 
enough  to  get  a  broken  nose,  and  this  robbed 
his  intonations  of  their  harmony,  and  left  in 
its  place  the  twang  I  have  mentioned. 

Yet  these  obstacles — formidable  enough 
to    block    the    path     of    ordinary    genius 


2  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

— were  swept  aside  by  the  electric  force 
and  earnestness  of  Booth's  impersonations. 
To  those  who  witnessed  them,  they  were  not 
the  mimic  creations  of  an  actor.  They  were 
reahties;  and  when  the  audience  left  the 
theatre  after  the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  his 
Richard,  they  wondered  why  history  had 
neglected  to  mention  that  "the  bloody  dog" 
was,  not  only  crook-backed  but  also  bandy- 
legged and  spoke  through  his  nose. 

There  was,  occasionally,  something  else 
about  his  Richard  that  truth  will  pardon  me 
for  mentioning.  If  he  had  the  power  to  im- 
bue his  audience  with  the  belief  that  he  was 
"Richard  himself,"  it  may  not  be  strange 
that  he  sometimes  indulged  in  the  same  be- 
lief. It  has  been  an  oft-told  story,  and  a 
true  one,  that,  in  one  of  his  performances 
of  Richard  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  in 
Philadelphia,  this  belief  got  so  much  the  bet- 
ter of  him  in  his  fight  with  Richmond  that 
the  latter,  in  order  to  save  his  head  from  the 
shower  of  Booth's  broadsword  blows,  leaped 
over  the  footlights  into  the  orchestra,  and 
then  fled  through  the  audience  with  the  an- 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH.  3 

gry  Richard  close  at  his  heels  and  hungry 
for  another  whack  at  his  brain-pan. 

Though  the  great  actor  was  full  of  eccen- 
tricity, such  a  bellicose  exhibition  of  it  was 
not  frequent,  and  when  it  did  occur  it  was 
easy  to  be  accounted  for.  He  was  fond  of 
"the  cup" — overly  fond  of  it,  like  a  few 
other  eminent  tragedians  that  had  trod  the 
stage  before  him.  This  "convivial  prone- 
ness"  was  often  the  source  of  serious  uneasi- 
ness to  the  manager  who  had  engaged  him, 
for  when  he  had  an  attack  of  it,  he  lost,  not 
only  the  knowledge  of  his  own  identity,  but 
also  his  power  or  disposition  to  fulfill  his  en- 
gagements. "Many  a  time  and  oft"  did  he 
disappoint  his  manager,  by  neglecting  to  put 
in  an  appearance,  and  compel  him  to  close  his 
theatre  with  an  apology  to  the  public  stating 
that  the  closing  was  entirely  owing  to  the 
"severe  indisposition  of  Mr.  Booth."  The 
public  swallowed  the  apology  and  their  dis- 
appointment good-naturedly,  for  they  were 
already  used  to  Mr.  Booth's  "indispositions," 
and  looked  upon  them  as  some  mysterious 
disease  peculiar  to  Melpomene's  disciples. 


4  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Some  fifty  years  or  more  ago,  Mr.  E.  A. 
Marshall  was  the  Napoleon  of  American 
theatrical  managers.  He  was  the  lessee  of 
three  establishments  and  ran  them  all  suc- 
cessfully. One  was  in  New  York,  another 
in  Baltimore,  and  the  third  in  Philadelphia — 
the  old  Walnut.  At  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  he  had  played  Booth  in  New  York 
and  Baltimore  and  then  brought  him  to 
Philadelphia  for  an  engagement  of  two 
weeks.  In  each  of  the  two  former  cities  Mr. 
Booth  had  given  his  manager  ample  proof 
of  his  liability  to  these  attacks  of  "sudden 
indisposition,"  and  Marshall  was  determined 
to  prevent  their  repetition,  if  prevention  were 
possible — at  least  until  the  end  of  the  en- 
gagement. 

But  how  to  do  it?  He  pondered  over  the 
problem  for  some  time,  and  the  more  he 
pondered  the  farther  away  he  was  from  the 
solution.  Should  he  ask  Mr.  Booth  to  oblige 
him  by  signing  the  pledge  for  two  weeks? 
That  was  his  first  idea  but  he  soon  dropped 
it.  To  approach  the  tragedian  in  his  sober 
moments  with  a  request  of  that  nature  would 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH.  5 

be  sure  to  bruise  his  dignity,  and  so  sorely 
that  he  would  refuse,  not  only  to  sign  the 
pledge,  but  to  play  at  all. 

Suddenly  a  bright  thought  struck  him. 
Calling  an  attache  of  the  theatre  he  said  to 
him :  "Go  round  on  the  stage  and  tell  the 
back-doorkeeper  that  I  wish  to  see  him." 

The  back-doorkeeper's  name  was  Cook. 
He  had  been  a  long  time  in  Marshall's  em- 
ploy and  was  a  fellow  of  more  intelligence 
than  his  position  deserved. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cook,  this,  as  you  know,  is 
Mr.  Booth's  first  night  and  I  have  an  im- 
portant task  for  you  to  do.  If  you  attend 
to  it  faithfully  I  will  see  that  you  are  paid 
for  your  trouble." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Marshall,  I  will  try  to 
do  so.     What  is  it?" 

"It  is  this ;  after  the  performance  to-night, 
and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Booth  leaves  his  dressing 
room.  I  want  you  to  accompany  him  to  his 
hotel.  Don't  let  him  stop  anywhere  on  the 
way.     You  understand?" 

"I  think  I  do,  Mr.  Marshall." 

"Very  well.     Now  you  need  not  say  to 


O  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

him  that  you  saw  me,  and  that  I  gave  you 
these  directions.  In  fact  I  want  you  to  be 
very  careful  that  you  don't.  You  are  simply 
to  join  him  as  he  leaves  the  theatre  as  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  chance  and  let  him  think 
that  your  offer  to  go  with  him  was  made 
merely  out  of  politeness." 

"I  understand  you,  Mr.  Marshall,  and  will 
attend  to  it." 

After  the  performance  Cook  stood  at  the 
back  door  waiting  patiently  until  he  saw  the 
tragedian  leave  his  dressing-room  and  ap- 
proach him.     Then  he  spoke : 

"Mr.  Booth,  if  you  have  no  objection  it 
will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  walk  with  you 
as  far  as  your  hotel.  The  streets,  at  this 
time  of  night,  are  filled  with  rowdies  and  I 
will  be  a  sort  of  body-guard  for  you." 

Cook  afterward  told  Mr.  Marshall  that 
when  he  made  his  polite  proposition,  Mr. 
Booth's  eyes  began  to  twinkle  and  look  at 
him  in  a  very  earnest  way  as  if  they  were 
getting  ready  to  dive  to  the  bottom  of  all  this 
unusual  solicitude.  Whether  Cook  was 
right  or  wrong  in  his  suspicion,  the  reader 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH.  7 

can  judge  for  himself  when  he  reads  the 
after-experience  of  the  back-doorkeeper. 

In  reply  to  Cook's  offer  the  tragedian 
merely  replied  :  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Cook,  you 
are  very  kind,  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have 
your  company." 

When  they  reached  the  hotel — a  third- 
rate  one  which  then  stood  at  the  northwest 
corner  of  Ninth  and  Market  streets,  and  was 
much  patronized  by  theatrical  people — Cook 
bade  the  tragedian  good-night  and  then 
turned  to  go.    But  Booth  stopped  him. 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Cook,  I  can't  permit  you  to 
leave  me  in  that  way.  Come  inside  a  mo- 
ment." 

Both  went  up  the  steps  and  entered  the 
hotel,  and  then  Cook,  with  some  alarm,  saw 
the  actor  step  up  to  the  bar.  If  his  alarm 
arose  from  the  thought  that  the  tragedian 
was  about  to  start  on  one  of  his  "periodi- 
cals," it  was  needless.  Booth's  order  was 
simply,  "Make  me  a  big  bowl  of  catnip  tea; 
have  it  as  hot  as  you  can  make  it  and  send  it 
up  immediately  to  my  room." 

Greatly  relieved  in  his  mind  Cook  now 


8  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

thought  that  he  might  safely  leave  the  trage- 
dian in  the  company  of  his  hot  catnip,  and 
again  started  to  go. 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Cook,  not  yet.  You  must  n't 
go  yet.  Come  to  my  room  with  me  and  sit 
awhile." 

The  invitation  was  so  cordially  given  that 
Cook  felt  flattered,  coming  as  it  did  from  so 
famous  a  source.  Nor  did  he  have  the  cour- 
age to  refuse,  but  followed  the  tragedian  up 
stairs  to  his  room.  What  occurred  when  he 
got  there  I  will  let  Mr.  Cook  himself  tell,  as 
he  told  it  to  Marshall  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. 

"Now,  Mr.  Marshall,  we  had  been  seated 
in  the  room  but  a  few  minutes  when  the 
waiter  brought  in  the  bowl  of  catnip  tea 
which,  as  I  told  you,  Mr.  Booth  had  order- 
ed. It  was  a  big  bowl — so  big,  that  I 
thought  he  must  have  a  terribly  bad  cold  if 
he  could  swallow  all  the  stuff  it  contained. 
Well,  he  put  the  bowl  on  the  table  by  the  side 
of  the  bed,  and  then,  thinking  it  time  for  me 
to  go,  I  reached  for  my  hat  and  started  for 
the  door.     But  Mr.  Booth  stopped  me  and 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH.  9 

took  my  hat  from  my  hand,  saying  with  a 
smile:  'No,  no,  Mr.  Cook;  this  is  a  very 
disagreeable  night  and  as  you  live  so  far 
down  town  it  would  be  very  cruel  in  me  to 
let  you  venture  out.  You  see  I  have  a  bed 
there  broad  enough  for  six  people  and  I  in- 
sist upon  it  that  you  stay  all  night' 

"I  told  him  I  would;  what  else  could  I 
do,  Mr.  Marshall?  I  did  n't  want  to  offend 
him,  and  it  looked  very  much  as  if  I  would 
offend  him  if  I  refused." 

"Well,  go  on;  what  else  happened?" 
asked  Marshall. 

"When  I  told  him  I  would  stay  he  said : 
That's  right.  Mr.  Cook;  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  you  have  so  much  good  sense.  And 
now  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  you 
comfortable.' 

"And  then  he  began  to  show  what  he 
meant  by  'comfortable.'  Opening  a  closet 
he  took  out  four  thick  blankets  and 
three  heavy  comfortables,  and  piled  them 
all  on  the  bed,  although  the  night  was 
not  cold.  We  then  got  into  bed,  Mr.  Booth 
choosing  the  side  near  the  catnip  tea. 


10  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  'Now.  Mr.  Cook,'  he  said,  dipping  out 
a  tumblerful  of  the  catnip  and  swallowing 
it,  'this  is  the  best  stuff  in  the  world  to  warm 
up  a  man.' 

"Then  he  dipped  out  another  tumblerful 
and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  'Excuse  me,  Mr.  Booth/  I  said,  'but—' 

"  'No  buts,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Cook,  un- 
less you  wish  to  offend  me.' 

"What  could  I  do,  Mr.  Marshall?  I 
did  n't  want  to  offend  him  so  I  began  to  sip 
it. 

"  'That's  not  the  way  to  drink  catnip  tea,' 
he  said.  'You  must  swallow  it  down  while 
it's  hot!' 

"I  got  the  tumblerful  down  somehow, 
and  then  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  It  was  of  no 
use.  I  began  to  feel  very  warm  around  the 
neck,  and  the  perspiration  commenced  to 
start  from  the  roots  of  my  hair  and  travel 
in  a  stream  down  my  back.  I  felt  that  I 
must  either  have  fresh  air  or  suffocate;  so 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  a  little  I  pushed 
down  the  heavy  covers.  I  thought  Mr. 
Booth  was  asleep,  but  he  was  n't. 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH.  H 

"  'What  do  you  mean,  Mr.   Cook  ?     Do 
you  want  to  give  us  both  our  death  of  cold  ?' 
Then  he  pulled  up  the  covers  and  leaning 
over  dipped  out  more  of  the  catnip  which  he 
swallowed     down,     and    again    filled     the 
tumbler  for  me.     There  was  no  use  in  my 
refusing.     He  was  determined  to  get  half 
of  the  hot  stuff  into  me,  and  I  believe  if 
there  had  been  no  other  way  to  do  it,  he 
would   have  held   my  head   and   poured   it 
down.     Now,  Mr.  Marshall,  a  quart  of  hot 
catnip  tea  emptied  into  a  man  may  be  a  good 
thing  to  warm  him  up,  if  he  needs  it ;  but  I 
did  n't.       Just     look     at     my     condition. 
There's  not  a  dry  rag  on  me.     However, 
let  that  pass.     What  I  want  to  say  now  is 
this:     When    you    are    again    in    need    of 
somebody  to  watch  ]\Ir.  Booth,  please  don't 
send  for  me.     I  am  always  willing  to  oblige 
you  in  anything  within  reason,  but  am  not 
willing  to  take  a  social  sweat  with  a  tra- 
gedian, or  any  other  man,  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  him  sober." 


John   Brougham. 


^'npHE  genial  John!"  So  was  he 
X  named  by  his  friends,  and  he  had 
a  host  of  them,  who  clung  to  him  in  his 
bright  days  of  prosperity,  and  did  not  for- 
sake him  when  the  dark  ones  of  adversity 
threatened  his  closing  years  with  poverty 
and  want.  Then  it  was  that  they  rallied 
round  him  and  gave  him  a  solid  proof  of 
their  unaltered  friendship. 

Poor  John !  I  knew  him,  and  "a  fellow 
of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy"  he 
was.  His  wit  was  exhaustless.  It  bubbled 
from  his  lips  with  the  liveliness  of  cham- 
pagne, and  flowed  from  his  pen  in  a  stream 
of  continuous  sparkle.  He  excelled  all 
other  burlesque  writers  in  the  flash  of  his 
humor  and  in  the  apt  and  prolific  use  of  the 
jeu-d' esprit.  But  his  forte  was  speechmak- 
ing.  Before  the  curtain  or  anywhere  else, 
he  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  happy  quip  with 


RS 

P^ 

M^lnfl^^^^J^H 

il 

JOHN   BROUGHAM. 
From  flic  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


JOHN   BROUGHAM.  I3 

which  to  tickle  the  ear  of  his  hearers  and  set 
them  in  a  roar.  No  embarrassing  stage 
emergency — and  every  actor  knows  that 
such  a  thing  will  sometimes  happen — could 
ever  ripple  the  surface  of  John's  tranquillity, 
or  upset  his  presence  of  mind. 

Indeed,  he  seemed  rather  to  delight  in 
getting  his  foot  into  an  "emergency"  in 
order  that  he  might  show  how  gracefully  he 
could  step  out  of  it. 

Here  is  an  instance: 

His  friends  having  tendered  him  a  com- 
plimentary benefit  at  Niblo's  Garden,  he  se- 
lected one  of  his  own  plays  for  the  occasion. 
He  was  cast  for  the  principal  character,  and 
in  one  of  the  scenes,  having  a  long  speech 
to  make  which  was  full  of  sentiment  and 
pathos,  he  commenced  to  deliver  it,  and  with 
all  the  eloquence  he  could  .muster.  In  the 
very  middle  of  it,  when  the  audience  were 
beginning  to  sniffle  and  reach  for  their 
handkerchiefs,  one  of  his  friends,  with  more 
zeal  than  judgment,  tossed  over  the  foot- 
lights a  purse  of  gold  that  fell  at  his  feet. 
A  look  of  vexation  or  indignation — the  audi- 


14  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

ence  harcllv  knew  which — shadowed  his 
face  as  he  paused  in  his  Hnes.  Then  he 
stooped,  picked  up  the  purse,  walked  toward 
the  foothghts,  and  with  face  still  flushed 
with  seeming  chagrin  and  anger,  he  spoke: 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen  : — I  have  ap- 
peared before  you  on  many  occasions  and  in 
many  characters,  and  hitherto  have  received 
nothing  but  kindness  and  consideration  at 
your  hands.  For  this  I  thank  you.  But  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  what  I  have  said  or 
done  to-night  to  merit  your  disapproval  or 
to  deserve  this  open  and  gross  insult.  How- 
ever, before  we  go  on  with  the  play,  I  deem 
it  a  duty  which  I  owe  to  myself  {weighing 
the  purse  in  his  hand  mid  then  putting  it  in 
his  pocket)  to  pocket  the  insult,  and  I  'd 
like  to  see  the  man  who  '11  try  it  again !" 

The  audience,  who  were  completely 
jockeyed  by  the  serious  earnestness  of  the 
first  part  of  his  speech,  and  had  listened 
breathlessly  to  his  sham  display  of  indigna- 
tion, now  burst  into  such  a  continued  roar 
of  laughter,  that  it  was  some  minutes  before 
the  play  could  proceed. 


JOHN    BROUGHAM.  15 

Here  is  another  incident  showing  that 
John's  humor  was  always  on  tap,  and  that 
he  never  allowed  the  barrel  to  get  low.  He 
was  walking  down  Broadway  with  a  friend 
w^hen  he  stopped  abruptly  before  a  tailor's 
establishment  and  remarked  to  his  friend : 
"Come  in  here  a  moment  with  me.  I  want 
to  see  if  the  overcoat  I  ordered  is  done.  I 
have  the  money  in  my  pocket  to-day  to  pay 
for  it;  to-morrow  I  may  not  be  so  fortu- 
nate. The  money  may  be  in  the  pocket  of 
some  other  fellow."  They  went  in  and 
John,  finding  his  coat  ready  for  him,  tried  it 
on,  saying  as  he  did  so :  "Well,  it  is  longer 
than  I  ordered  it;  however,  that  may  be  a 
good  fault.  Where  is  your  bill  ?"  The  clerk 
presented  the  bill,  the  amount  being  seventy 
dollars,  which  John  paid  and  was  walking 
out  of  the  store  when  the  proprietor  stopped 
him : 

"There's  a  mistake  about  that  coat,  Mr, 
Brougham." 

"A  mistake  in  the  length  of  it?  Yes,  I 
see  there  is.  It  is  considerably  longer  than 
I  wanted  it." 


l6  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"I  don't  mean  that,  Mr.  Brougham.  I 
mean  that  the  clerk  has  made  a  mistake  in 
the  price  of  it.  The  bill  should  have  been 
$80  instead  of  $70." 

"Then  you  want  $10  more?  I  am  very 
sorry  to  say  that  I  have  n't  that  much  money 
about  me.  However,  I  '11  tell  you  what  you 
may  do.  The  coat  is  about  that  much  too 
long;  suppose  you  cut  ten  dollars'  worth  off 
the  tail  of  it  and  call  it  square." 

The  proprietor  laughed  and  said,  "Oh, 
never  mind,  Mr.  Brougham.  Let  it  pass; 
we'll  make  up  the  $10  in  some  other  way." 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  Brougham  and 
he  started  for  the  door.  Before  he  reached 
it  a  thought  struck  him  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten something,  and  turning  back  he 
whispered  it  in  the  proprietor's  ear : 

"In  making  up  that  $10,  please  don't  cut 
it  off  the  legs  of  those  trousers  I  ordered 
yesterday." 

One  more  of  his  pranks  and  then  we  have 
done  with  Brougham. 

He  had  written  a  farce  which  was  about 
to  be  played  for  the  first  time,  and  during 


JOHN   BROUGHAM,  I7 

the  morning's  rehearsal  of  it,   one  of  the 
actors,  who  was  cast  in  the  part  of  a  servant, 
came  to  him  with  a  long  face  saying : 
"Mr.  Brougham,  I  can't  do  this." 
"Can't  do  what?"  asked  Brougham. 
"Why,  this  business  of  William's  which 
you  have  written  down  here :     'Enter  Wil- 
liam holding  a  nightcap  in  his  hand  which 
he  hastily  sivallows.'  " 

"Well,  the  sentence  is  a  little  slipshod  in 
its  construction.  However,  it  doesn't 
mean  that  you  are  to  swallow  your  hand, 
but  the  nightcap." 

"I  know  what  it  means,  Mr.  Brougham." 
"Well,  then,  where  is  the  difficulty?" 
"Difficulty?"    echoed    the    puzzled    actor, 
"Why,  I  never  swallowed  a  nightcap  in  my 
life;  I  don't  know  how." 

"You  don't  know  how?  Then  it  is  high 
time  you  did.  Your  education  has  been 
neglected.     Step  this  way,  please." 

\\^illiam  crossed  the  stage  and  Brougham 
whispered  something  in  his  ear.  The  whis- 
per was  not  loud  enough  to  reach  the  ears  of 
the  other  actors,  but  the  broad  grin  on  Wil- 


l8  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Ham's  face  proved  that  the  noiseless  words 
must  have  conveyed  to  his  understanding  all 
the  information  it  needed.  When  night 
came  and  the  farce  was  played,  William 
went  through  his  difficult  bit  of  stage  busi- 
ness with  so  much  ease,  the  audience  was  in- 
clined to  believe  that  the  swallowing  of 
nightcaps  had  been  the  occupation  of  his 
life. 


PETER  RICHINGS. 
From  the  collection  of  Charles  N.  Mann. 


Peter   Richinprs. 


PETER  was  a  great  favorite  with  the 
old-time  playgoers  of  New  York,  as 
well  as  those  of  Philadelphia.  In  the  first- 
named  city  he  was  a  member  of  the  Old 
Park  Company  and  afterwards  of  the 
Broadway — a  theatre  managed  by  E.  A. 
Marshall.  This  theatre  was  demolished 
long  ago  to  give  place  to  business  houses. 
It  stood  on  the  east  side  of  Broadway  near 
Worth  street. 

Peter  left  New  York  to  join  the  company 
of  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre  in  the  Quaker 
City,  and  all  of  its  play-goers  of  fifty  years 
ago — at  least  those  of  them  who  have  not 
accompanied  him  into  the  other  world — 
must  remember  Peter.  How  could  they 
forget  the  mercurial  spirit  of  his  Mercutio, 
his  Dazzle,  his  Robert  Macaire,  and  other 
of  his  comedy  characters  which  he  seemed 
to  have  made  especially  his  own? 
3 


20  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

He  was  a  wag,  too,  but  an  unintentional 
one.  That  is  to  say,  his  humor  was  of  an 
unconscious  type,  oozing  out  at  unexpected 
moments  to  spht  the  sides  of  his  listeners, 
while  the  author  of  it  would  be  at  a  loss  to 
discover  the  source  of  their  merriment,  and 
wonder  what  he  had  said  that  deserved  to 
be  laughed  at. 

As  a  man  Richings  was  above  reproach. 
He  was  always  polite — severely  so,  and 
sometimes  stretched  his  love  of  decorum  to 
the  bounds  of  absurdity.  He  looked  for 
propriety  in  the  conduct  of  all  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact,  and  the  slightest  breach 
of  it,  which  an  ordinary  straight-laced  man 
would  overlook,  Peter  could  n't  nor  would  n't 
tolerate.  Hence  some  of  his  friends  in  a 
spirit  of  sarcasm,  had  dubbed  him  "Punc- 
tilio Peter." 

But,  with  it  all,  he  never  forgot  his  polite- 
ness. If  anyone  should  chance  to  be  rude 
enough  to  puncture  his  "punctilio"  and  thus 
call  for  his  censure,  he  gave  it  to  them  in  the 
mildest  manner,  and  always  coupled  it  with 
an  excuse  or  explanation  that  soothed  the 


PETER  RICHINGS.  21 

recipient  into  "taking  his  medicine"  as 
meekly  as  if  Peter  had  conferred  a  favor  by 
giving  it. 

One  night  at  the  Wahiut  Street  Theatre, 
and  during  the  performance  of  Robert 
Macaire  with  Peter  as  the  hero,  a  young 
couple,  occupying  one  of  the  lower  private 
boxes,  displayed  more  evidence  of  affection 
than  was  consistent  with  Peter's  idea  of  pro- 
priety. They  were  not  within  view  of  the 
audience  but  were  plainly  visible  to  those  on 
the  stage.  Every  few  minutes  the  young 
man — evidently  a  newly-married  one — 
would  take  his  eyes  from  the  stage,  lean 
tenderly  over  to  his  companion  and  give  her 
a  kiss.  Now,  kissing  a  pretty  girl  is  not 
such  a  dreadful  thing  to  look  at,  yet  Peter 
was  shocked.  Not  that  he  thought  their 
kissing  was  an  unpardonable  sin,  but  he  con- 
sidered it  a  household  delicacy  that  would  n't 
spoil  if  they  kept  it  till  they  got  home.  And 
he  resolved  to  tell  them  so.  When  the  cur- 
tain dropped  on  the  first  act,  and  without 
waiting  to  change  his  dress  or  even  to 
divest    his    eye    of    Macaire's    conventional 


22  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

black  patch,  he  went  through  the  entrance 
that  opened  into  the  lobby  of  the  theatre 
and  tapped  lightly  at  the  private-box  door. 
In  a  moment  or  two  it  was  opened  by  the 
young  Benedick  himself  and  then  Peter,  in 
the  most  urbane  tones,  began  to  unload  the 
object  of  his  visit : 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  thus  rudely 
interrupting  you,  but  really  sir,  we  can't 
allow  this  sort  of  thing;  you  must  try  to 
keep  it  till  you  get  home.  It  is  contrary  to 
our  rules;  and  besides,  sir — besides — we 
don't  do  it  ourselves!" 


WILLIAM    RUrUS    BLAKE. 
From  the  collection  of  Charles  iV.  Mann. 


William  Rufus  Blake. 

BLAKE  was  an  actor  of  the  old  school. 
He  was  a  "light  comedian"  in  his 
younger  days,  and  a  very  good  one;  but  as 
the  years  crept  on  they  piled  the  flesh  upon 
him  until  at  last  he  became  so  corpulent  he 
was  forced  to  abandon  the  line  of  light 
comedy  and  take  up  that  of  "first  old  men." 
In  his  impersonations  of  these  he  at  once 
became  a  greater  favorite  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  those  of  light  comedy.  In  certain 
parts,  notably  Jesse  Rural,  in  Old  Heads 
and  Young  Hearts,  and  Old  Rapid,  in  A 
Cure  for  the  Heartache,  he  had  few,  if  any, 
equals,  and  his  Sir  Harcourt  Courtley,  in 
London  Assurance,  was  considered  by  com- 
petent critics  to  be  almost,  if  not  quite,  as 
great  a  piece  of  acting  as  the  Sir  Harcourt 
of  Harry  Placide. 

Some    years   ago — the    exact    year    has 
slipped   my  recollection — Blake  gathered   a 


24  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

company  together  with  the  intention  of  play- 
ing the  old  comedies  in  all  the  principal 
cities.  The  company  was  composed  of  the 
best  talent  he  could  secure — in  fact  each  and 
every  actor  and  actress  of  the  major  parts 
was  an  adept  in  his  or  her  line,  while  those 
of  the  minor  parts  were  not  the  sticks  that 
are  so  often  used  to  fill  up  a  cast. 

He  reached  Philadelphia  with  his  com- 
pany, in  which  city  six  performances  were 
given,  and  to  wretched  houses.  I  was 
present  at  the  last  one,  and  never  in  my  long 
life  have  I  seen  such  a  "beggarly  account  of 
empty  boxes."  At  the  close  of  the  perform- 
ance Mr.  Blake  stepped  before  the  curtain, 
uncalled  for.  and  made  a  speech.  It  was 
not  very  long,  but  it  was  a  most  remarkable 
one  to  fall  from  the  lips  of  a  manager  to 
those  who  had  honored  him  with  their  at- 
tendance :  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen :  I  am 
delighted  to  say  that  the  performance  just 
ended  will  be  our  last  in  your  City  of  Broth- 
erly Love.  Before  we  again  visit  it  we 
will  give  its  citizens  time  to  become  theatri- 
cally enlightened,  in  order  that  they  may  be 


WILLIAM    RUFUS    BLAKE.  2^ 

able  to  distinguish  the  difference  between 
good  and  bad  acting.  Fearing,  however, 
that  this  may  not  occur  until  the  Crack  of 
Doom,  I  bid  you  all  a  long  farewell." 

To  say  that  the  "ladies  and  gentlemen" 
present  were  astonished  at  the  speech,  would 
be  drawing  it  too  mild;  they  were  shocked; 
and  if  its  unadulterated  impudence  had  n't 
robbed  them  of  their  breath  they  would 
probably  have  hissed  the  maker  of  it. 
However,  to  let  out  their  indignation  in 
that  way  might  not  have  been  wise.  There 
were  more  people  behind  the  curtain  than 
in  front  of  it,  and  Blake  was  just  the  man, 
and  just  in  the  mood,  to  marshal  his  stage 
forces  and  hiss  the  hissers  out  of  the  house. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Blake  alive,  was  on 
a  hot  July  afternoon.  He  was  seated  at  the 
front  window  of  his  house  with  a  cigar  in 
his  mouth,  a  palm-leaf  fan  in  each  hand  and 
a  big  tumblerful  of  something  standing  on 
the  window-sill.  I  might  have  supposed  it 
to  be  ice-water,  but  there  was  a  bunch  of 
green  sprigs  sticking  out  of  the  top  of  it  that 
killed  any  supposition  of  that  kind. 


26  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Why,  Rufus,"  I  said,  "don't  you  know 
this  is  mid-summer  ?  How  is  it  you  're  not 
out  of  town?" 

"Out  of  town  ?  Great  God,  my  boy,  is  n't 
it  hot  enough  here?" 

He  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
bored  his  nose  for  a  moment  among  the 
green  sprigs,  and  I  left  him  leaning  back  in 
his  easy  chair,  panting  like  a  dog  and 
stirring  up  the  hot  summer  air  with  his 
palm-leafs. 


EDWIN    FORREST. 
From  the  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


Edwin  Forrest. 

ON  the  list  of  the  world's  tragedians 
the  name  of  Edwin  Forrest  stands,  if 
not  at  the  top,  at  least  very  close  to  it.  As 
a  man  he  was  brusque  in  his  manners,  even 
to  surliness,  and  had  made  many  enemies 
among  his  profession,  and  more  of  them  out 
of  it  than  his  popularity  as  an  actor  could 
placate.  But  it  is  as  a  wag  that  I  now  have 
to  deal  with  him,  and  he  was  apt  enough  in 
that  line  to  deserve  the  space  and  the  record 
I  have  given  him  in  these  pages. 

The  reader  may  think  it  strange  that  the 
great  impersonator  of  Lear  and  Macbeth 
and  Metamora  should  step  from  his  high 
pedestal,  give  Melpomene  the  cold  shoulder, 
and  condescend  to  amuse  himself  in  the 
Thalian  field  of  waggery.  Yet  he  is  not  the 
only  tragedian,  nor  by  any  means  the  only 
great  one,  that  has  condescended  to  do  the 
same  thing  and  to  do  it  so  well  that  biog- 


28  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

raphy  has  made  a  note  of  it  and  would  have 
been  neghgent  if  it  had  n't. 

There  have  been  many  stories  told  of  For- 
rest's waggish  tricks,  but  I  have  learned, 
and  from  the  lips  of  the  tragedian  himself, 
that  the  majority  of  them  have  no  founda- 
tion for  truth,  save  in  the  fertile  brain  of  his 
fellow-actors. 

The  one  which  I  will  now  give  is  not  of 
this  sort.  I  can  vouch  the  truth  of  it,  for 
I  was  the  treasurer  of  Niblo's  Garden,  when 
and  where  it  occurred,  and  my  young  assist- 
ant was  the  victim  at  whose  head,  or  rather 
boots,  Forrest  launched  the  shaft  of 
his  waggery. 

The  tragedian,  during  his  rehearsals,  was 
exacting  in  many  things  and  especially  so 
in  one — he  insisted  upon  having  the  silence 
of  the  grave  around  him.  He  would  toler- 
ate no  noise,  nor  sounds  of  any  kind,  save 
such  as  the  speeches  or  the  business  of  the 
play  warranted. 

One  morning  the  rehearsal  of  King  Lear 
was  under  way  and  had  progressed  as  far  as 
the  fourth  scene  of  the  third  act,  when  the 


EDWIN  FORREST.  29 

sound  of  squeaking  boots  caught  the  ear  of 
Forrest.  The  boots  had  passed  from  the 
lobby  of  the  theatre  through  the  stage  door 
and  were  leisurely  taking  their  way  along 
the  passage  back  of  the  wings  and  toward 
the  rear  of  the  stage.  John  McCullough 
was  the  "Edgar"  and  had  reached  the  mid- 
dle of  one  of  his  mad  speeches  when  For- 
rest suddenly  interrupted  him.  "Hold,  one 
moment,  John,  if  you  please.  We  will  stop 
the  rehearsal  in  order  to  give  those  boots  an 
opportunity  to  get  through  with  what  they 
have  to  say." 

McCullough  paused  long  enough  to  per- 
mit the  squeaking  to  die  away  in  the  dis- 
tance and  then  took  up  Edgar's  speech 
where  he  had  broken  it  off:  "Let  not  the 
creaking  of  shoes  nor  the  rustling  of  silks 

betray      thy ,"      when     Forrest     again 

stopped  him: 

"D — n  it  man !  Those  are  not  shoes. 
Listen !  There  they  go  again.  I  will  give 
any  man  a  ten-dollar  bill  who  will  bring  me, 
dead  or  alive,  the  owner  of  those  boots!" 
However,  as  no  man  seemed  anxious  or  will- 


30  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

ing  to  try  for  the  reward,  the  muscular  tra- 
gedian told  McCullough  to  finish  his  speech 
and,  when  he  had  done  so,  went  on  with  his 
own,  giving  the  opening  line :  "Why,  thou 
wert  better  in  thy  grave,"  with  forcible 
emphasis,  and  with  a  scowl  in  the  direction 
of  the  offending  boots  as  if  he  were  ready  to 
assist  their  owner  into  the  portals  of  the 
other  world. 

I  heard  of  the  incident  on  the  following 
morning,  and  turning  to  my  assistant — who, 
I  thought,  was  the  probable  owner  of  the 
boots — asked  him  if  he  had  anything  to 
do  with  it.  He  admitted  that  the  boots 
were  his  and  said  that  he  had  tried  to  soak 
the  squeak  out  of  them,  but  could  n't  suc- 
ceed. "Then,"  I  said,  "for  heaven's  sake, 
take  them  off  and  travel  in  your  stocking 
feet,  if  you  again  have  occasion  to  go  behind 
the  scenes  during  a  Forrest  rehearsal." 

While  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  great 
tragedian  possessed  plenty  of  talent,  it  is 
also  certain  that  he  possessed  plenty  of 
muscle  to  back  it  up,  if  the  play  required  it. 
And  sometimes  it  did,  or  he  thought  it  did. 


EDWIN   FORREST.  3! 

if  we  may  judge  by  the  lavish  display  he 
made  of  it  in  Damon.  In  his  impersonation 
of  this  character  he  had  tried  his  muscle  on 
more  than  one  Lucullus  and — so  far  as  my 
knowledge  serves  me — none  of  them  found 
enough  delight  in  the  experience  to  care  for 
its  repetition. 

Let  me  give  an  illustration  of  the  manner 
of  his  muscle. 

In  one  of  the  New  York  theatres  there 
was  once  an  actor  remarkable  for  his 
pygmean  size,  and  also  for  his  pygmean 
ability  which  never  carried  him  beyond  "My 
lord,  the  carriage  awaits"  and  six  dollars  a 
week.  He  was  a  devoted  worshiper  of 
Forrest,  and,  whenever  the  latter  played  an 
engagement  at  the  theatre,  never  failed  to 
bore  the  manager  with  a  request  to  cast  him 
in  some  little  part  where  he  might  have  a 
chance  to  be  on  the  stage  with  "the  great 
Forrest."  During  one  of  the  tragedian's 
engagements,  the  little  actor — he  was  not 
five  feet  in  height — came,  as  usual,  to  the 
manager,  asking  if  he  would  n't  give  him  a 
part  in  one  of  Forrest's  plays. 


32  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Give  you  a  part!  What  can  you  do? 
What  do  you  want?" 

"Oh,  any  little  part,  if  it's  only  a  line, 
where  I  can  be  on  in  the  same  scene  with 
Forrest." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  you. 
The  pieces  for  the  week  are  nearly  all  cast 
and — stay;"  here  a  sardonic  smile  twitched 
up  the  corners  of  the  manager's  mouth. 
"Do  you  think  you  could  get  through  with 
Lucullus?" 

"Lucullus?" 

"Yes,  Lucullus,  in  Damon  and  Pythias." 

"I  don't  know;  I  never  saw  Damon 
played." 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  a  show  and  cast  you 
for  the  part.  It  is  short  and  therefore 
there's  not  much  to  study.  There  is  some 
business  in  it,  to  be  sure;  but  Forrest  will 
post  you  up  on  this  and  help  you  through 
with  it  when  the  night  comes." 

The  little  actor  was  delighted,  especially 
at  rehearsal  when  the  renowned  tragedian 
seemed  to  take  so  much  interest  in  showing 
him  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 


EDWIN   FORREST.  33 

"You  must  stand  just  at  this  spot  and 
speak  your  lines ;  when  you  get  through  I 
will  seize  you  and  put  you  off  at  first  en- 
trance." 

"Is  that  all  I  will  have  to  do?" 

"Yes,  that  is  all ;  but  I  think  you  will  find 
it  enough.  Remember,  when  I  take  hold  of 
you,  you  must  give  yourself  up  entirely  to 
me." 

When  the  night  came  the  little  actor  took 
his  stand  near  the  wings  dressed  in  spotless 
tights  and  a  Roman  tunic.  He  had  gotten 
through  tolerably  well  with  what  little  he 
had  to  say  in  the  first,  second  and  third 
acts  and  stood  waiting  for  his  cue  to  go  on 
in  the  fourth.  When  it  came,  he  walked  on 
and  everything  went  swimmingly  until 
Damon  asked  for  his  horse,  and  acted  as  if 
he  thought  Lucullus  had  the  animal  stowed 
away  in  the  depths  of  his  pocket.  "Where's 
my  horse?"  and  the  horse  not  being  pro- 
duced, the  angry  Damon  believed  that  the 
quickest  way  to  get  it  would  be  to  tear  the 
little  actor  into  pieces.  Pouncing  upon  him, 
like  a  hungry  tiger  on  a  lamb,  he  lifted  him 


34  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

in  the  air,  shook  him  from  side  to  side,  and 
then  set  him  down  on  his  feet.  But  it  was 
only  to  get  a  better  hold.  Again  he  seized 
him  and,  turning  him  up,  took  him  by  the 
heels,  and  with  a  shout,  "I'll  throw  thee  with 
one  swing  into  Tartarus,"  he  whirled  him 
around  in  Indian-club  fashion,  balanced  him 
in  the  air  a  moment,  and  then  flung  him  out 
through  the  first  entrance  and  into  an  im- 
aginary Tartarus  in  front  of  the  prompter's 
box. 

Disheveled,  bruised,  sore  and  astonished, 
there  he  lay  trying  to  recover  wind  enough 
to  get  on  his  feet.  One  of  his  brother 
actors  seeing  his  predicament  helped  him  up, 
remarking:  "Ah,  Tom,  my  dear  fellow,  at 
last  you  have  had  your  wish.  You  have 
played  with  Forrest." 

"Played  with  Forrest?  Not  exactly," 
said  Tom.  "Forrest  has  played  with  me, 
and  I  don't  think  he'll  get  another  chance." 

Forrest,  in  the  day  of  his  prime,  and  be- 
fore the  gout  got  the  upper  hand  of  him, 
was  a  high  liver  and  one  of  the  heartiest  of 
eaters.     Entering  a  restaurant  one  day  he 


EDWIN    FORREST.  35 

sat  down  at  a  table  and  called  the  waiter : 
"Bring  me  a  beefsteak."  was  his  order,  and 
he  gave  it  in  such  subterranean  accents  that 
the  darkey  stood  spellbound,  rolling  up  his 
eyes  and  showing  his  teeth. 

"What  are  you  grinning  at?  If  you  don't 
go  for  that  steak,  and  be  quick  about  it,  I'll 
go  for  you  and  there'll  be  one  less  contraband 
in  the  world." 

The  darkey  left,  and  when  he  returned 
with  the  order,  it  was  "a  small  steak  for 
one"  which  he  placed  before  the  tragedian. 
Forrest  turned  the  steak  over  on  the  plate 
with  the  fork  two  or  three  times,  examining 
it  closely.  Then  he  handed  it  back  to  the 
waiter.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "that's  what  I 
want;  that's  beefsteak.  The  sample  is  all 
right;  tell  your  master  to  send  me  some!" 


William  E.  Burton. 


1  PRESUME  the  reader  knows  that  there 
is  such  a  disease  as  the  Thespian  fever; 
but  whether  he  does  or  not,  I  had  a  sharp 
attack  of  it  in  my  young  days  that  led  me — 
as  it  leads  all  others  of  its  victims — to  join 
an  Amateur  Dramatic  Association.  The 
latter  was  the  most  pretentious  one  of  its 
day,  and  named  the  "Boothenian"  in  honor 
of  the  elder  Booth.  Some  of  its  members, 
who  "joined  for  the  fun  of  it,"  afterwards 
took  up  the  profession  in  earnest  and  became 
tolerably  good  actors.  Whether  any  of 
them  are  now  in  the  land  of  the  living,  or 
all  are  in  the  maw  of  "devouring  Time,"  I 
am  not  prepared  to  say. 

The  rules  of  the  association  provided  that 
there  should  be  one  performance  every  week 
during  the  winter  season  and  that  each  mem- 
ber should  be  entitled  to  a  night,  choosing 
the  play  and  any  part  in  it  that  he  preferred. 


AVILLIAM   E.   BURTON. 
From  the  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


WILLIAM   E.   BURTON,  37 

There  was  no  charge  for  admission  to 
these  performances.  The  pubhc  were  in- 
vited to  come  "without  money  and  without 
price"  and  enjoy  what  the  Association's  pro- 
gram modestly  called  "a  histrionic  treat." 
And  they  did  come.  Whether  the  "treat" 
always  satisfied  the  palate  of  the  public  I 
cannot  say ;  but  as  it  cost  them  nothing  they 
were  generous  enough  to  gulp  it  down  with 
all  the  signs  of  satisfaction. 

"Bombastes  Furioso"  was  a  dish  which 
the  Boothenians  were  in  the  habit  of  spread- 
ing for  the  entertainment  of  their  patrons; 
but  a  tragedy  of  some  sort — and  the  deeper 
the  better — was  the  standard  delicacy.  Of 
my  own  attempts  in  the  latter  line  I  shall 
say  nothing.  A  half-century  has  passed 
since  then,  and  yet  the  bare  recollection  of 
them  now  causes  a  tingling  blush  to  mount 
my  cheek  and  a  cold  shiver  to  crawl  up  and 
down  my  back-bone. 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  subject  of 
my  chapter?  Have  patience,  reader,  and 
you  will  know. 

Among  the  members  of  the  Association 


fvH( 


38  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

was  a  young  fellow  whom  we  recognized  as 
Percy.  What  his  other  name  was,  or 
whether  he  had  one,  I  never  knew,  nor  did  I 
have  the  curiosity  to  ask.  When  his  name 
appeared  on  the  night's  program,  it  was 
simply  "Percy."  He  insisted  upon  having 
it  so,  saying  "it  was  good  enough  without  a 
head  before  it,  or  a  tail  behind." 

Percy  had  plenty  of  ambition,  there  was 
no  doubt  about  that,  but  it  had  a  streak  of 
tragedy  running  through  it  which,  unfortu- 
nately, Nature  could  n't  have  noticed  when 
she  shaped  his  legs.  They  were  long  and 
thin,  a  little  bit  crooked,  and  of  the  same 
diameter  all  the  way  up  and  down — except 
at  the  knee-caps,  and  these  stuck  out  like 
sugar-bowls. 

But  Percy  was  no  fool.  He  knew  that 
Nature  had  either  made  an  oversight  in  the 
shaping  of  his  legs  or  else  had  intended  him 
for  an  English  snipe.  Yet  he  did  n't 
despair.  Hunting  up  a  regular  stage  cos- 
tumer  he  ordered  a  pair  of  pads,  or  "shapes," 
as  they  are  technically  called. 

"Now,  Mr.  Costumer,"  he  said,  "I  should 


WILLIAM   E.   BURTON  39 

like  you  to  be  careful.  I  don't  want  a  pair 
of  clumsy  things  that  destroy  all  the  natural 
beauty  of  a  fellow's  leg.  Just  soften  down 
the  curves  a  little." 

Whether  the  costumer  succeeded  in 
"softening  down  the  curves"  to  Percy's  sat- 
isfaction, or  not,  I  cannot  say;  but  it  was 
evident  the  legs  were  still  there,  for,  when- 
ever their  owner  appeared  before  the  audi- 
ence, they  were  always  received  with  a 
round  of  hearty  applause.  Whether  Percy 
took  all  this  applause  as  a  tribute  to  his 
genius,  or  gave  his  legs  the  credit  for  some 
of  it,  is  something  which  he  never  divulged. 

One  night,  after  one  of  our  performances, 
he  called  me  aside  and  said : 

"Do  you  know  I  am  about  to  make  a  bold 
stroke?" 

"A  bold  stroke?     In  what  direction?" 

"In  the  direction  of  the  stage,  of  course." 

"And  how  do  you  purpose  beginning  your 
stroke?" 

"In  this  way;  I  shall  call  on  Mr.  Burton 
to-morrow  and  ask  him  if  he  won't  give  me 
an  opening  at  his  theatre." 


40  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"That  is  a  rather  bold  stroke;  but  I  wish 
you  luck.  Let  me  know  to-morrow  night 
how  you  succeed  in  it." 

Burton,  at  that  time,  was  the  lessee  and 
manager  of  the  Arch  Street  Theatre  of 
Philadelphia.  When  I  saw  Percy  on  the 
following  night  he  told  me  he  had  called  on 
Mr.  Burton  and — but  stop;  we  will  let 
Percy  give  the  story  of  his  interview  and  in 
his  own  words : 

"Mr.  Burton  received  me  courteously,  ask- 
ing what  he  could  do  for  me.  I  told  him  of 
my  determination  to  earn  my  living  on  the 
stage,  and  that  I  would  like  him  to  give  me 
an  opening  at  his  theatre.  He  eyed  me  a 
moment  from  head  to  foot  and  then  asked 
if  I  thought  I  had  enough  perseverance  to 
saw  hickory  wood  all  day  long  for  ten  cents 
a  cord.  I  told  him  I  did  n't  think  my  perse- 
verance would  stand  a  strain  of  that  kind. 

"  T  suppose  not,'  he  replied,  'and  there 
may  not  be  much  glory  in  being  a  good 
woodsawyer;  but,  as  you  tell  me  it  is  a  liv- 
ing you  are  on  the  lookout  for,  I  can  assure 
you  that  there  are  many  actors  to-day  who 


WILLIAM  E.  BURTON.  4I 

could  earn  a  better  living  in  that  profession 
than  they  are  now  doing  in  their  own. 
However,  let  me  hear  you  read  this  speech 
of  Hamlet's,'  and  opening  the  book  he 
pointed  to  the  soliloquy  commencing  with 
'To  be  or  not  to  be.' 

"Now,  I  flatter  myself  that  what  I  don't 
know  about  the  melancholy  Dane  nobody 
else  does.  If  you  remember  I  played  the 
part  not  a  long  while  ago,  and  though  the 
audience  did  n't  seem  to  see  the  novelty  and 
beauty  that  underlaid  my  conception  of  the 
part,  that  was  their  fault,  not  mine.  I  was 
not  responsible  for  their  stupidity  and  there- 
fore not  obliged  to  furnish  them  with 
brains." 

"Of  course  not;  but  never  mind  that — go 
on  with  your  story." 

"Well,  I  began  the  speech  with  what  I 
thought  the  proper  emphasis  and  intonation, 
and  had  just  reached  the  end  of  'the  thou- 
sand natural  shocks  that  flesh  is  heir  to,' 
when  he  stopped  me : 

"  'That  will  do,  young  man.  It  is  plain 
that  you  have  something  in  you,  but  it  will 


42  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

take  a  little  time  and  a  great  deal  of  study  to 
bring  it  out.  How  long  have  you  been  pre- 
paring for  the  stage?' 

"  'About  one  year,'  I  replied. 

"'Only  one  year?  Wonderful!  Well, 
though  I  cannot  give  you  an  opening  just 
now,  I  can  give  you  a  bit  of  good  advice 
which  will  cost  you  nothing.' 

"I  thanked  him  kindly  and  then  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  'Go  home  and  study  hard.  Take 
Shakspere  to  bed  with  you.  Read  his  Ham- 
let carefully,  and  weigh  the  sense  of 
every  line  so  that  no  hidden  meaning  may 
escape  you.  Ponder  over  his  words  the  last 
thing  at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  After  breakfast  take  him  up 
again  and  digest  his  lines  until  your  dinner 
hour ;  but  be  careful  to  make  that  meal  a 
light  one;  an  overloaded  stomach  is  apt  to 
muddle  the  cranium  and  interfere  with  the 
free  action  of  the  brain.' 

'"Is  that  all.  Mr.   Burton?' 

"  'Yes,  I  believe  that  is  all.' 

"  'How  long  am  I  to  keep  up  this  study  ?' 


WILLIAM  E.   BURTON. 


43 


"  'Well,  let  me  see — I  think  that  ten 
years  ought  to  be  sufficient.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  you  will  be,  unless  my  judgment 
is  at  fault,  what  neither  Mr.  Booth  nor  Mr. 
Forrest  has  as  yet  succeeded  in  being.' 

"Here  he  broke  off  his  sentence  and,  as 
he  showed  no  sign  of  continuing  it,  I  could 
not  help  asking  the  question :  'What  will 
I  be,  Mr.  Burton?' 

"With  a  look  that  seemed  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  pity  in  it,  he  handed  me  my  hat  and 
replied : 

"  'The  worst  actor  the  world  has  ever 
seen !'  " 


John  Drew. 


ALL  Philadelphia  theatre-goers  of 
forty-five  years  ago,  who  are  still 
alive,  cannot  but  remember  John  Drew  when 
he  was  associated  with  William  Wheatley 
in  the  management  of  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre.  He  was  the  father  of  the  present 
popular  John — an  actor  who  has  fallen  heir 
to  enough  of  his  sire's  genius  to  make  him 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  stars  of  to- 
day. 

John,  the  elder,  was  a  comedian  of  great 
versatility.  In  light,  low,  or  eccentric 
comedy  his  impersonations  all  bore  the 
stamp  of  an  artist.  If  a  part  demanded  a 
touch  of  pathos — as  in  "The  Irish  Emi- 
grant"— he  could  give  the  touch  with  power 
enough  to  sound  the  heart  and  tap  the  tears 
of  the  audience. 

In  private  life  he  was  social,  unassuming 
and    open-hearted.     No    needy    actor    ever 


JOHN    DREW. 

From  the  collection  of  Charles  N.  Mann. 


JOHN  DREW.  45 

asked  his  aid  in  vain,  and  needy  actors,  in 
those  days,  were  as  plentiful  as  Fal staff's 
blackberries.  They  say  that  every  man  has 
his  enemies,  but  I  never  knew  that  John  had 
any — unless  it  were  his  own  overly-warm 
heart. 

However,  it  is  not  as  a  man,  but  as  a  wag 
that  I  now  wish  to  speak  of  him,  and  in  this 
character  he  was  quite  as  much  at  home  as 
in  any  of  his  others.  One  night,  while  in 
his  dressing  room  at  the  Arch,  he  told  me 
the  following  story  which  will  show  how 
sharp  an  edge  he  could  put  on  a  practical 
joke  w^hen  he  was  in  the  vein : 

Attached  to  one  of  the  theatres  as  a 
"dresser"  was  a  man  named  Allen.  When 
the  manager  had  an  unimportant  part  and 
nobody  else  to  substitute,  Allen  was  taken 
from  his  occupation  of  "dresser"  and  put  in 
to  fill  up  the  cast.  Hence  the  company  nick- 
named him  "Dummy  Allen." 

Now,  Dummy  was  afflicted  with  a  nonde- 
script trouble  in  his  speech.  It  was  not  ex- 
actly a  hitch  or  an  impediment,  but  a  foggy, 
cold-in-the-head  sort  of  pronunciation  that 


46  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

changed  the  form  of  his  IM's  and  N's  and 
tumbled  them  out  of  his  mouth  in  the  shape 
of  B's  and  D's.  He  was  also  troubled  with 
another  drawback;  he  was  as  deaf  as  a  post 
— possibly  a  little  deafer.  A  speech  might 
be  fired  at  his  head  w^th  a  Krupp  gun  and 
the  "post"  would  be  more  likely  to  hear  it 
than  Dummy;  therefore  "cues"  given  in  the 
ordinary  way  would  have  brought  him  no 
more  information  than  if  they  had  been 
uttered  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
How  then  did  he  get  over  the  difficulty  ?  In 
a  very  simple  manner.  He  kept  his  eye 
fixed  on  the  other  actor's  lips  and  when  they 
ceased  to  move  Dummy  knew  it  was  his  turn 
to  go  ahead. 

Of  course  these  little  drawbacks  of 
Dummy's  were  big  enough  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  ever  becoming  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude.  Still  they  did  n't  compel  the 
manager  to  leave  him  out  of  the  cast,  al- 
though policy,  and  a  decent  regard  for  the 
nerves  of  the  audience,  required  that  the  part 
given  him  should  be  of  little  or  no  impor- 
tance. 


JOHN  DREW.  47 

It  SO  happened  that  John  Drew  was  one 
of  the  company  in  the  same  theatre  with 
Dummy,  and  in  one  of  the  plays  had  a  scene 
in  which  the  latter  came  on  as  his  servant. 
The  servant  had  but  two  or  three  lines  to 
speak  and  these  were  in  answer  to  a  speech 
of  Drew's.  Dummy  stood  watching  his 
master's  lips  and  waiting  patiently  for  them 
to  get  through  with  their  work  and  settle 
down.  But  they  seemed  determined  not  to 
settle  down.  Drew's  love  of  waggery  had 
got  the  better  of  him.  After  finishing  his 
speech  to  Dummy  he  turned  his  head  aside 
just  enough  to  take  his  mouth  from  out  the 
range  of  the  eyes  of  the  audience  and  then 
kept  up  a  silent  motion  of  his  lips.  An 
absolute  quiet  reigned  on  the  stage  and 
throughout  the  house.  Dummy  waited  and 
wondered  and  the  audience  waited  and 
wondered.  Then  a  hiss  from  the  latter 
warned  the  wag  that  he  must  put  an  end  to 
his  joke  and  let  the  play  go  on. 

When  they  were  both  off  the  stage. 
Dummy,  who  had  n't  recovered  from  his 
wonder  at  Drew's  long  speech,  asked  him : 


48  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Johd,  what  was  the  batter  with  that 
speech  you  bade?  It  was  so  dadb  lawg  I 
begad  to  thidk  you'd  dever  fiddish!" 

It  will  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  speak  of 
John's  younger  brother,  Frank,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  Arch  Street  Theatre  Com- 
pany under  his  brother's  management  in 
1853.  Frank  is  still  living  and  still  play- 
ing, and  't  would  be  hard  to  find  to-day  a 
more  trenchant  personator  of  character-parts 
than  he. 


Wri.I.IAM    J.    FLORENCE. 
From  the  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


William  J.  Florence. 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  find,  either  in  the 
profession  or  out  of  it,  a  more  good- 
natured  fellow  than  was  Billy  Florence. 
This  was  one  of  the  traits  of  his  character 
that  endeared  him  to  his  friends — and  their 
name  was  Legion.  Yet,  with  all  his  good- 
nature, he  held  a  rooted  antipathy  toward 
anything  that  had  the  savor  of  bulldozing. 
How  he  treated  the  latter,  when  he  ran  up 
against  it,  the  following  story  will  serve  to 
illustrate : 

During  one  of  his  engagements  in  Phila- 
delphia he  attended  a  convivial  gathering  of 
his  fellow-professionals,  and — as  sometimes 
happens  at  gatherings  of  this  sort — their  de- 
votions at  the  festive  board  were  not  over 
until  long  after  midnight.  So,  when  Billy 
left  he  thought  the  hour  an  improper  one  to 
return  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  and  that 
his  more  judicious  course  would  be  to  pass 


50  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  remainder  of  the  night  in  a  hotel.  He 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  host  of  one  of 
these — the  Washington  House,  which  then 
stood  on  the  north  side  of  Chestnut  street 
above  Seventh.  Entering  the  hotel  he 
asked  the  night-clerk  to  let  him  have  a  room, 
and  also  to  oblige  him  with  a  single-bedded 
one  that  he  could  have  to  himself. 

The  clerk  looked  over  his  register,  and 
calling  a  servant  gave  him  a  key  and  di- 
rected him  to  "Show  the  gentleman  to  34." 
Florence  followed  the  servant  up  three 
flights  of  stairs  and  then  his  guide  stopped 
before  a  room-door  in  which  he  tried  his 
key.  The  door,  however,  was  not  locked, 
and  when  it  was  opened,  Billy  entered  and 
found  himself  in  a  double-bedded  room,  one 
of  the  beds  being  already  occupied. 

"I  thought  I  told  the  clerk  to  give  me  a 
room  to  myself.  However,  it  does  n't  mat- 
ter much.     Light  the  gas  and  you  may  go." 

Billy  took  off  his  coat  and  vest,  put  his 
watch  and  pocket-book  under  his  pillow  and 
then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  table, 
apparently  absorbed  in  thought.     Ten  min- 


WILLIAM  J.  FLORENCE.  5I 

iites  passed  and  then  his  reverie  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  gruff  voice  from  the  occupied 
bed. 

"When  are  you  going  to  put  out  that 
Hght?" 

With  the  pleasantest  of  tones  Billy  re- 
plied :  "Presently,  sir,"  and  then  resumed 
his  attitude  of  thought. 

Another  ten  minutes,  and  again  came  the 
voice  from  the  other  bed,  and  gruffer  than 
before. 

"If  you  don't  turn  out  that  light  I'll  find 
a  way  to  make  you,  sir!" 

Now  Billy  was  a  man  of  the  mildest  man- 
ners, and  a  polite  request  from  the  grum 
occupant  of  the  bed  would  have  quickly 
accomplished  what  his  bulldozing  was  not 
destined  to  do. 

"You'll  find  a  way  to  make  me?  Well, 
my  friend,  go  ahead;  I  did  intend  to  oblige 
you  by  turning  out  the  light ;  but  as  you  are 
so  crabbedly  anxious  about  it  I  have  changed 
my  mind  and  shall  let  it  burn  till  morning." 

The  fellow  jumped  from  his  bed,  while 
Billy  sat  quietly  at  the  table  waiting  for 
S 


52  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

some  pugnacious  demonstration  of  the 
method  his  gruff  friend  would  adopt  to 
carry  out  his  threat.  However,  instead  of 
showing  any  pugnacity  he  commenced  dress- 
ing himself,  interspersing  his  toilet  opera- 
tions with  churlish  snarls  and  black 
innuendos,  all  of  which  he  hurled  at  the 
head  of  Billy. 

"I  know  you,  sir.  You  're  no  better  than 
you  should  be." 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  Billy;  "but  if  I  am 
as  good  as  I  should  be,  it  is  more  than  the 
world  gives  you  the  credit  for.  Did  n't  you 
notice  that  I  took  the  precaution  of  putting 
my  watch  and  pocketbook  under  my  pillow  ? 
You  see  that  I  know  you,  too — By  the  way, 
those  trousers  of  yours  fit  you  splendidly. 
Might  I  ask  who's  your  tailor?" 

Without  giving  the  comedian  the  desired 
information,  his  surly  companion  finished 
dressing  himself  and  then  bounced  out  of 
the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  him  with 
a  volley  of  sulphurous  words  that  had  no 
more  serious  effect  upon  Billy  than  to  twitch 
up  the  corners  of  his  mouth.     Taking  off 


WILLIAM  J.  FLORENCE.  53 

the  remainder  of  his  clothing  the  actor  now 
got  into  bed,  where  he  lay  but  a  few  minutes 
when  the  door  of  his  room  again  opened  and 
the  hotel  clerk  entered. 

"Mr.  Florence,  I  made  a  mistake  in  giv- 
ing you  this  room." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  did.  If  I  remember 
rightly  I  paid  you  for  a  room  which  I  could 
have  to  myself,  and  instead  of  getting  it,  you 
gave  me  one  in  company  with  a  bear." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  that  I  made  the 
blunder ;  but  there  is  a  fine,  large,  airy  room 
down  on  the  second  floor  which  you  can 
have  if  you  — " 

"No,  thank  you;  this  one  suits  me  now 
well  enough.  Besides,  as  my  friend,  the 
bear,  has  taken  the  trouble  to  dress  himself 
from  top  to  toe,  don't  you  think  it  would  be 
cruel  to  rob  him  of  that  fine,  large,  airy 
room  on  the  second  floor?" 

The  clerk  left,  leaving  Billy  master  of  the 
situation.  However,  instead  of  crowing 
over  his  victory  he  went  to  sleep  and  the 
first  person  to  meet  him  in  the  morning  was 
the  host  himself. 


54  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Hello,  Billy ;  is  that  you  ?  I  did  n't  know 
you  were  here  over  night.  What  room  did 
the  clerk  give  you?" 

Florence  told  him  the  number. 

"Is  it  possible?  So  it  was  you  that 
created  all  that  fuss  last  night?" 

"No;  if  there  was  any  fuss  I  think  your 
clerk  was  the  creator  of  it.  By  the  way, 
who  is  my  friend  of  the  fuss?" 

"Who  is  he?  Well,  I  will  introduce  you 
to  him.  He  professes  to  be  a  great  admirer 
of  yours." 

"Admirer  of  mine?  Well,  he  had  a  sin- 
gular way  of  showing  his  admiration  last 
night.     However,  you  may  introduce  me." 

The  introduction  took  place,  and  after- 
wards Billy  and  his  bear  became  acquaint- 
ances if  not  friends. 

There  is  one  joke  of  Billy's  which  his  fel- 
low-actors are  fond  of  relating  and  which 
has  more  pathos  in  it  than  is  usually  found 
in  jokes.  The  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  in  New 
York  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  comedian 
and  in  his  leisure  moments  it  was  here  that 
his  friends  were  pretty  sure  to  find  him.     If 


WILLIAM  J.  FLORENCE.  55 

he  needed  "a  shave"  he  never  took  it  in  any 
other  barber  shop  than  that  of  the  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, nor  from  the  hand  of  any  other  barber 
than  the  one  who  had  for  years  removed  his 
beard,  when  it  needed  removal.  It  was  a 
tender  operation,  for  this  same  beard  was 
thick  and  wiry,  and  the  actor  knew  by  ex- 
perience that  "Fritz"  was  the  only  man  who 
could  scrape  it  off  without  scraping  a  piece 
of  his  cheek  with  it. 

Billy  had  been  out  of  town  for  a  couple 
of  weeks,  and  on  his  return  he  sought  the 
Fifth  Avenue  and  entered  the  barber  shop. 
He  looked  around  for  Fritz,  but  not  seeing 
his  tonsorial  favorite,  he  turned  to  another 
knight  of  the  razor  with  the  inquiry: 
"Where's  Fritz?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Florence,  I  thought  you  knew 
all  about  it.     Poor  Fritz  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  echoed  Billy,  "I  did  n't  know  he 
was  sick.     When  did  he  die?" 

"Day  before  yesterday.  He  is  to  be 
buried  to-morrow,  and  we  are  raising  a  sub- 
scription for  a  floral  wreath.  Could  you 
give  us  a  little  help?" 


56  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"A  little  help?  Certainly."  said  Flor- 
ence; then,  counting  out  twenty-five  dollars 
from  his  pocket-book,  he  added :  "Take 
that;  and  if  it  isn't  enough  you  may  call  on 
me  for  more." 

"Thank  you,  ]\Ir.  Florence;  this  will  be 
quite  enough.  And  now,  since  you  have 
been  so  liberal,  won't  you  kindly  suggest  an 
appropriate  motto  that  we  can  place  inside 
the  wreath?" 

Billy's  face,  which  had  been  somewhat 
clouded  at  the  news  of  Fritz's  death,  now 
brightened  up. 

"A  motto  ?     Yes,  I  have  it — 'Next !'  " 

And  the  motto  was  adopted. 

The  pathetic  part  of  his  joke  lies  in  the 
fact  that  Billy  himself  was  the  "next"  to 
answer  the  call  and  follow  Fritz  on  his 
journey  to 

"The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveler  returns." 


"Mr.  Jones." 


JONES  was  not  his  name,  but  it  will  an- 
swer my  purpose.  His  real  one  I 
withhold  for  charitable  reasons.  Time, 
long  ago,  rang  down  the  curtain  on  his  life, 
and  I  have  no  desire  that  the  blazon  of  his 
questionable  waggery  should  now  cause  his 
bones  to  blush  and  turn,  uneasy,  in  their 
narrow  bed. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  speak — the  early 
'50's — Jones  was  a  member  of  the  Walnut 
Street  Theatre  Company  of  Philadelphia. 
He  was  a  shiftless  fellow,  and  probably 
adopted  the  profession,  not  that  he  had  any 
great  love  for  it,  but  because  he  could  get  a 
foothold  in  no  other.  He  had  been  on  the 
stage  for  years,  yet  was  still  on  the  bottom 
round  of  the  histrionic  ladder,  where  he 
was  content  to  remain  rather  than  make  an 
effort  to  climb  higher.  He  held  the  posi- 
tion   of    "second    walking-gentleman"    and 


58  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

was  expected  to  take  a  hand  at  "general 
utility"  when  the  business  of  the  stage  re- 
quired it.  His  salary  was  eight  dollars  a 
week — not  a  princely  remuneration,  yet  so 
long  as  it  came  with  regularity  his  ambition 
was  satisfied. 

However  his  ambition  and  his  pocket 
were  two  different  things,  and  more  than 
once  did  the  latter  rebel.  More  than  once 
did  its  owner  tumble  into  the  clutches  of 
"grim  Necessity"  and  have  to  call  in  the  aid 
of  his  ingenuity,  to  escape  her  sharp  pinches. 
Fortunately,  he  had  plenty  of  ingenuity,  and 
none  knew  better  how  to  use  it. 

The  reader,  if  he  be  not  too  young,  may 
perhaps  carry  his  recollection  back  to  the 
days  when  the  paper-collar  flourished  in  all 
its  unstarched  glory.  It  was  not  a  favorite 
with  the  ultra-fashionables,  but  it  was  a 
blessing  for  the  ultra-impecunious,  and  a 
blessing  for  which  they  were  indebted  to 
the  ingenuity  of  Jones.  His  washerwoman 
one  day  disappointed  him  by  not  returning 
his  clean  linen,  and,  to  cap  her  cruelty,  abso- 
lutely refused  to  let  him  have  a  stitch  of  it 


<<•»,„     ^„,,„„  }} 


MR.  JONES.  59 

until  old  accounts  were  liquidated.  The 
situation  was  desperate.  He  was  cast  in  the 
farce  for  that  night  and  in  it  he  had  some 
love-making  to  do.  Now,  he  was  well 
aware  that  no  discriminating  audience 
would  tolerate  an  actor's  making  love  minus 
his  shirt-collar;  and  he  was  quite  as  well 
aware  that  an  apologetic  explanation  of  his 
washerwoman's  cruelty  would  not  be  likely 
to  mend  matters.  So  when  night  came  he 
asked  the  property  man  for  a  sheet  of  fools- 
cap, and  this  he  cut  in  the  shape  of  the  latest 
fashionable  four-ply  and  pinned  it  around  his 
neck.  He  told  me  afterwards  that  he  was 
not  without  a  feeling  of  doubt  whether  the 
sharp  eyes  of  the  audience  would  not 
"tumble  to  the  fake."  (This  bit  of  slang  is 
his  OAvn,  not  mine,  and  is  perhaps  more 
forcible  than  any  choice  expression  I  could 
have  substituted.)  His  doubt,  however, 
was  needless. 

The  audience  swallowed  the  "fake"  as 
credulously  as  if  the  collar  were  made  of  the 
best  four-ply  linen.  Possibly,  the  part  that 
Jones  was  playing  might  have  blinded  them 


60  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE, 

a  little.  He  had  a  good  deal  to  say  in  it 
about  his  big  bank  account;  and  when  he 
was  n't  making  love  he  was  drawing  checks 
with  all  the  sang-froid  of  a  millionaire. 
People  who  do  this  sort  of  thing  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  wearing  paper  collars. 

But  whatever  it  was  that  enabled  him  to 
pass  his  counterfeit,  his  invention  turned 
out  a  decided  success.  Never  afterwards 
did  he  have  any  fear  that  a  washerwoman's 
cupidity  would  rob  him  of  a  clean  collar. 
The  secret  soon  leaked  out,  and,  having  no 
patent  on  his  invention,  some  enterprising 
manufacturer  took  hold  of  it  and  the  paper 
collar  became  a  standard  institution. 

The  ingenuity  of  Jones,  however,  was  not 
always  of  the  feasible  sort.  For  instance, 
a  fellow-actor — as  slim  in  purse  as  himself 
— asked  him  if  he  could  n't  suggest  a  sclieme 
that  would  put  a  little  money  in  both  their 
pockets. 

"A  scheme?  Yes,  I'm  about  hatching 
one  now  that  will  make  us  both  rich." 

"What  is  your  scheme?" 

"I'm  afraid  vou '11  blab." 


"mr.  jones/''  6i 

"Blab?  No,  not  if  you  take  me  in  with 
you;  does  it  take  much  cash?" 

"Not  a  cent;  there's  the  beauty  of  it." 

"Well,  don't  keep  a  fellow  in  suspense; 
what  is  your  scheme?" 

"You  "II  join  me,  then?" 

"Certainly;  I  've  been  hanging  on  the 
world  by  the  eyelids  long  enough,  and  will 
do  anything  that  promises  a  square  meal 
oftener  than  once  a  month." 

"Well,  listen.  You  know,  I  suppose,  that 
the  French  can  beat  the  world  in  making 
theatrical  wigs?" 

"Yes.  I  've  heard  so.  What 's  that  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Everything,  my  dear  fellow.  French 
wigs  would  sell  in  this  country  like  hot 
cakes.  Now,  what  I  propose  is  this :  You 
are  to  go  over  to  Paris  and  buy  up  all  the 
stage  wigs  you  can  find.  It  does  n't  matter 
whether  they  are  new  or  second  hand ;  then 
you  are  to  — " 

"Hold  up,  a  moment,  Jones;  you  said 
your  scheme  would  n't  require  any  cash." 

"Certainly,  Sam,  I  said  so." 


62  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  how  a  man  can 
buy  wigs,  or  anything  else,  without  paying 
for  them?" 

"I  did  n't  say  you  were  not  to  pay  for 
them.  That  is  another  beauty  in  my 
scheme.  You  are  merely  to  pay  for  them 
in  the  currency  of  the  country,  and  you  must 
take  over  a  cargo  of  these  with  you." 

"A  cargo  of  francs?" 

"Sam.  you  are  dull  of  comprehension.  I 
said  nothing  about  francs ;  I  said  the  cur- 
rency of  the  country — frogs'  legs.  Don't 
you  know  that  a  Frenchman  would  rather 
have  — " 

Sam  turned  on  his  heel  without  stopping 
to  know  what  "a  Frenchman  would  rather 
have."  Nor  did  he  wait  for  Jones  to  ex- 
plain how  he  could  get  a  "cargo  of  frogs' 
legs"  without  paying  for  them. 

So  much  for  the  ingenuity  of  Jones;  and 
now  let  us  turn  to  a  more  vicious  sample  of 
his  waggery. 

Among  the  ballet  girls  belonging  to  the 
company  was  one  on  whom  he  had  fixed  a 
matrimonial   eye.     The  girl   was  possessed 


MR.  JONES/^  63 

of   some  personal   charms   and   his   friends 
very  naturally  thought  that  these  lay  at  the 
bottom     of     his     attachment.     But     rumor 
thought   otherwise,    and,    in    fact,    was   not 
mealy-mouthed   in   saying   that  his   attach- 
ment was  built  upon  charms  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent nature.     And  rumor,   for  once,  was 
right.      Jones — who  was  always  ready     to 
patch  up  his  impecuniosity,  and  never  very 
scrupulous  in  his  manner  of  obtaining  the 
patches — had  discovered  in  some  way  that 
his  charmer  had  four  hundred  dollars  in  a 
savings-bank.     He    thought    it    was  a  snug 
little  sum  and  might  be  of  use  to  him;  and 
he  also  thought  that  the  quickest  and  most 
honorable  way  to  get  hold  of  it  would  be  to 
marry  her.     And  he  did.     A  few  months 
went    by,    and    so    did    the    four    hundred. 
Then  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake  in  marrying  his  charmer 
so  hastily  and  thought  that  the  quickest,  if 
not  the  most  honorable,  way  to  remedy  the 
mistake   would   be   to   leave   her.     And   he 
did.     The  next  morning  after  his  desertion, 
he  surprised  his  friends  by  the  following  ad- 


64  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

vertisement  which  appeared  in  the  personal 
column  of  one  of  the  daily  papers : 

"Whereas  my  wife,  Lucy  Jones,  has  left 
my  bed  and  board  without  just  cause  or 
provocation,  all  persons  are  cautioned 
against  trusting  her  on  my  account,  as  I  will 
pay  no  debts  of  her  contracting — or  my  own 
either — after  this  date.  T.  Jones.'^ 

Dry  den  observes :  "We  wink  at  wags 
when  they  offend,"  but  the  offence  of  Jones 
in  his  matrimonial  scheme  was  a  little  too 
rank  for  even  his  friends  to  "wink  at." 

Now,  although  Jones  was  but  a  fourth- 
rate  actor — or  worse — and  held  an  humble 
position  in  the  company,  yet  he  was  not  a 
man  devoid  of  education.  He  was  looked 
upon  by  his  fellow-players  as  a  shrewd 
theatrical  critic;  when  he  gave  his  opinion 
on  their  acting  they  accepted  it  as  sound,  and 
if  their  efforts  received  his  approbation  they 
were  satisfied  it  was  deserved.  They  were 
often  the  victims  of  his  waggery,  and  he  had 
a  way  of  bringing  it  in  when  they  were  not 
looking  for  it.  If  one  of  them  sought  his 
approbation  without  deserving  it  he  would 


"mr.  jones/'  65 

be  apt  to  get  something  else,  and  his  method 
of  treating  these  undeserving  ones  was 
pecuHar.  He  would  lift  up  his  victim's  van- 
ity to  a  giddy  height  and  then  drop  it  with 
a  thud  that  usually  knocked  the  bottom  out. 

One  night  after  the  performance  one  of 
the  actors  who,  Jones  thought,  had  a  higher 
opinion  of  himself  than  was  justified,  asked 
him: 

''Well,  Jones,  I  had  a  difficult  part  to  play 
to-night.  I  noticed  you  were  standing  in 
the  wings  watching  me.  What  do  you 
think  of  my  conception  of  it?" 

"It  was  extraordinary!"  said  Jones. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  you 
understand  its  difficulty.  Now,  tell  me  can- 
didly, did  you  ever  see  the  part  played  as 
well?" 

"To  be  candid  with  you,"  said  Jones,  "I 
have,  in  my  time,  often  seen  the  part  played, 
and  occasionally  played  worse — but  d — d 
little!" 

Here  is  another  sample  of  his  lifting  and 
dropping  process : 

A  new  member  had  been  added  to  the 


66  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

company  and  Tones  was  not  long  in  finding 
out  his  weak  points  and  taking  his  measure 
for  a  joke.  There  was  one  thing  which 
Jones  could  n't  tolerate — vanity — and  the 
newcomer  was  full  of  it.  When  in  the 
green-room  he  would  stand  before  its  mir- 
ror, and  devote  his  time,  between  the  calls, 
to  admiring  the  shape  of  his  legs.  Jones 
could  see  nothing  in  them  worthy  of  admira- 
tion and  resolved  that  he  would  tell  their 
owner  so  should  an  opportunity  come.  It 
did  come.  His  victim  was  standing  in  the 
wings  one  night  waiting  for  his  cue,  when 
Jones,  who  was  not  far  away,  burst  out  with 
a  flash  of  admiration,  seemingly  intended  for 
the  ear  of  the  prompter,  to  whom  he  had 
been  talking,  but  quite  loud  enough  for  his 
victim  to  hear : 

"What  a  wonderful  pair  of  legs  that  man 
has !  They  alone  ought  to  make  his  for- 
tune." 

The  owner  of  the  legs  turned  round  and 
Jones  walked  up  to  him : 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir;  if  I  am  too  inquisitive, 
Mr.  ,  you  must  n't  think  hard  of 


MR.  JONES.  67 

me,  but  lay  the  blame  where  it  belongs.  No- 
body conld  look  upon  the  shape  of  those 
legs  of  yours  without  being  inquisitive. 
Pray  tell  me,  sir,  do  you  pad?" 

With  a  look  of  pride  and  a  smack  of  sat- 
isfaction on  one  of  the  legs  in  question,  the 
victim  replied : 

"I  pad?  What  a  question!  No,  indeed, 
sir;  not  I!" 

"Well,  I  thought  not;  but—" 

Here  Jones  paused. 

"But  what,  sir?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  I  was  merely  about  to  re- 
mark that — you  ought  to !" 


H.  L.  Bateman. 

BATEMAN,  in  his  younger  days,  had 
been  an  actor  of  some  ability,  but  later 
in  life  he  gave  up  the  stage.  He  was 
the  father  of  the  "Bateman  Children,"  Kate 
and  Ellen.  As  child  actresses  they  became 
celebrated,  and  were  such  an  attractive  fea- 
ture that  the  various  managers  seldom  left 
them  without  an  engagement.  Their  read- 
ing was  faultless,  their  knowledge  of  stage 
business  phenomenal,  and,  taken  altogether, 
their  acting  was  such  that  stage  prophets 
predicted  the  rise  of  twin  stars,  already 
above  the  horizon  and  about  to  flash  their 
lustre  across  the  theatrical  firmament. 

The  prediction  was  not  wrong  regarding 
one  of  them.  When  Kate  had  grown  to 
womanhood,  her  father  saw  that  her  talent 
for  the  stage  had  grown  with  her,  and  at 
once  determined  to  bring  her  out  as  a  star. 
He  devoted  all  his  time  and  attention  to  the 


H.    L.    BATEMAN.  69 

making  and  managing  of  her  engagements 
and  no  manager  could  have  been  more 
shrewd.  As  a  man  he  was  good-natured  and 
easy-going;  pecuHar  in  some  of  his  ways,  it 
is  true,  yet  those  who  knew  him  best  and  un- 
derstood his  pecuHarity  had  no  trouble  in 
getting  along  smoothly  in  their  business  re- 
lations with  him. 

He  made  an  engagement  for  Kate  to  play 
at  Niblo's  Garden,  but  not  being  satisfied  to 
have  her  make  her  appearance  in  any  of  the 
old  plays  he  determined  to  have  a  new  one 
written  expressly  for  her.  This  was  done — 
Augustin  Daly,  then  a  reporter  on  the  New 
York  Express,  being  the  author.  The  title 
of  the  play  was  "Leah,  the  Forsaken,"  and 
it  proved  a  great  success,  adding  to  the 
already  established  fame  of  Kate  as  an  ac- 
tress, and  also  to  her  bank  account  as  well 
as  to  that  of  Niblo's. 

I  have  said  that  Bateman  was  a  shrewd 
manager,  and  one  evidence  of  his  shrewdness 
was  that  he  never  allowed  the  audience  to 
pass  over  his  daughter's  acting  without  ap- 
plause, whenever  she  made  a  point  that  he 


70  WAGS  OF  THE   STAGE. 

thought  deserved  it.  Applause  is  the  pabu- 
lum that  nourishes  the  efforts  of  a  dramatic 
artiste,  and  none  knew  the  fact  better  than 
Bateman.  It  was  his  custom  to  seat  himself 
in  the  parquet  as  soon  as  the  curtain  rose, 
and  then,  with  his  eye  and  ear  fixed  on  Kate, 
to  start  the  needed  plaudits  when  the  proper 
moment  came. 

I  was  in  the  parquet  one  night  when  he 
came  in  and  sat  down  two  or  three  seats  in 
front  of  me.  He  always  wore  a  very  tall 
stove-pipe  hat,  and  now,  without  removing  it, 
he  sat  waiting  for  his  daughter  to  make  her 
entrance.  Directly  behind  Bateman  sat  a 
gentleman  who  was  busily  dodging  his  head 
from  side  to  side  in  his  endeavor  to  get  a 
glance  at  the  stage  around  the  edges  of  the 
high  hat  in  front  of  him.  Finding  that  his 
dodging  was  fruitless  he  leaned  over  and, 
in  a  very  mild  and  polite  tone,  said  :  "Won't 
you  please,  sir,  to  take  off  your  hat;  I  can 
scarcely  see  anything."  Bateman  looked 
round  at  his  questioner,  smiled,  and  quite  as 
politely  replied:  "Certainly,  sir;  with 
pleasure." 


H.   L.    BATEMAN.  71 

Now,  Bateman  had  a  very  remarkable 
head  of  hair — remarkable  both  in  its  quality 
and  quantity.  It  was  wiry  and  stiff,  of  a 
sour-crout  tint  and  stood  straight  up  in  a 
manner  to  excite  wonder  how  it  was  possi- 
ble for  the  stove-pipe,  tall  as  it  was,  to  ac- 
commodate it. 

After  nodding  pleasantly  to  his  petitioner 
behind  him,  and  removing  his  hat,  he  ran  his 
fingers,  with  an  upward  movement,  through 
his  hair,  and  then  bent  his  looks  attentively 
on  the  stage.  A  few  minutes  passed  and 
then  he  felt  a  gentle  tap  on  his  shoulder 
accompanied  with  another  request  from  his 
polite  friend  behind  him : 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  to  give  you  so  much 

trouble;  but  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  put 

on  your  hat  again  ?     I  can't  see  anything  at 

all  now!" 

When    Bateman   came   in   the  box  office 

next  morning,  I  told  him  of  the  incident  I 

had  witnessed  and  asked  him  "Who's  your 

friend  ?" 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is,"  he  replied,  "but 

I  do  know  he  is  mighty  hard  to  please !" 


Sam.  Hemple. 


SAM  was  a  Philadelphian,  and, — in  the 
opinion  of  every  Quaker  City  play- 
goer of  twentv-five  or  thirty  years  ago 
— an  ideal  low  comedian.  That  was  not 
only  their  opinion  but  they  were  sure  of  it. 
"Burton?  What  is  Burton  compared  with 
our  Sam  ?  A  rush-light  to  the  sun !"  As  for 
Toodles,  they  said  Sam's  had  more  laughs 
in  it  to  the  square  inch  than  Burton's  to  the 
square  mile.  Perhaps  they  were  right.  It 
is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  discuss  it,  so  I 
will  leave  Burton  out  of  the  question  and 
turn  my  attention  to  Sam  alone.  Although 
his  line  was  low  comedy  yet  he  did  venture 
to  stray  from  it,  on  one  or  two  special  occa- 
sions, and  enter  the  solemn  domain  ot 
tragedy. 

Now,  to  look  at  Sam  you  would  have  to 
look  a  long  while  to  see  anything  tragic 
about  him.  His  total  avoirdupois  was  some- 


SAM    HEMPLE. 

From  the  collection  of  Charles  N.  Mann. 


SAM   IIEMPLE. 


73 


thing  in  the  neighborhood  of  three-hundred. 
His  body  was  shaped  hke  a  football  and  un- 
derneath it  was  a  pair  of  legs  so  short  that 
they  seemed  to  have  been  driven  in  by  the 
solid  three-hundred  pounds  of  pressure 
above. 

He  had  played  Falstaff  several  times  and 
when  he  did  he  had  all  the  needed  flesh  with- 
out bothering  the  costumer  for  an  artificial 
stomach  of  rubber  and  wind ;  and  when  he 
gave  Jack's  lines :  "What  a  thing  should  I 
have  been  when  I  had  been  swelled !"  the 
audience  were  satisfied  that  he  meant  what  he 
said  and  knew  what  he  was  talking  about. 

T  have  mentioned  that  it  was  on  a  special 
occasion  only  that  he  ventured  into  tragedy, 
and  this  would  be  when  the  time  came 
around  for  his  benefit.  He  knew  that  his 
friends,  as  well  as  the  general  public,  ex- 
pected something  novel,  something  entirely 
out  of  the  ordinary  rut,  when  "Sam  Hemple" 
took  a  benefit,  and  he  was  sure  to  give  it  to 
them. 

On  the  approach  of  such  an  event  Sam 
never  forgot  to  give  me  a  week's  notice,  ac- 


74  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

companied  with  a  five-dollar  package  of 
tickets,  one  of  which  I  was  expected  to  make 
use  of,  and  do  anything  I  pleased  with  the 
others — except  to  return  them  to  him.  I 
told  him  one  day  that  I  thought  his  benefits 
were  coming  rather  close  together.  "Close 
together?"  he  echoed,  "Twice  a  year — do 
you  call  that  close?  I  tell  you,  my  dear  fel- 
low, when  a  man  is  the  owner  of  half-a- 
dozen  little  pigs  that  are  always  clinging  to 
his  coat-tail  and  squealing  for  bread  and 
butter  and  a  pair  of  solar-tips,  his  benefits 
can't  come  too  close  together." 

There  was  one  of  these  benefits  that  I  par- 
ticularly remember.  The  walls  of  the  whole 
city  and  its  suburbs  were  thickly  plastered 
with  huge  posters  announcing  the  event  two 
weeks  ahead.  Passers-by  would  stop  and 
read  and  stare  with  a  grin  when  they  came 
to  the  line  in  big  letters :  "Balcony  scene 
from  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Sam  Hemple,  for 
this  occasion  only,  as  Romeo." 

'Twas  indeed  a  bold  undertaking  for  Sam. 
However  handy  his  football  body  and  short 
legs  might  come  in  for  Falstaff  they  were 


SAM    HEMPLE. 


75 


likely  to  prove  a  little  in  the  road  of  Romeo. 
But  confidence  is  everything  and  Sam  had 
plenty  of  it.  "Play  Romeo?  Of  course  I 
can.  The  public  really  don't  know  what  I 
can  do,  and  I  intend  to  show  'em."  Thus  he 
spoke  to  one  of  his  friends ;  and  he  did  "show 
'em"  and  also  showed  them  some  new  and 
remarkable  readings  of  Shakspere. 

We  have  a  multitude  of  scholiastic  indi- 
viduals, called  "Shaksperean  annotators," 
who  insist  that  when  the  Bard  said  anything 
which  the  world  could  n't  comprehend,  he 
must  have  intended  to  say  something  else, 
and  the  intelligent,  old-time  compositors 
would  n't  let  him.  Now  Sam  was  no  scholi- 
ast, yet  probably  was  as  able  as  the  ablest 
to  tell  the  world  what  that  "something  else" 
was. 

But,  "to  return  to  our  mutton." 
When  the  night  came  and  the  curtain  rose 
on  the  balcony  scene,  there  was  a  tremen- 
ous  burst  of  applause.  Juliet  stood  there 
with  her  gaze  fixed  lovingly  down  on  her 
Romeo,  who  was  now  bending  his  body,  as 
gracefully  as  its  circumference  would  allow, 


76  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

in  acknowledgment  of  the  applause.  When 
it  ceased  Sam  turned  around  and  lifting  his 
eyes  toward  his  Juliet  on  the  balcony  com- 
menced his  lines :  "See,  how  she  leans  her 
cheek  upon  her  hand !  O  that  I  were  a  glove 
upon  that  hand  that  I  might  touch  that 
cheek."  He  stopped  a  moment  to  give 
Juliet  time  to  sigh  and  say  "Ah  Me!"  and 
then  went  on : 

"She  speaks ! 
O,    speak   again,    bright   angel,   for   thou   art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  Messenger  of  Heaven 
Unto   the   white   upturned   wondering   eyes 
Of  mortals  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him. 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-passing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 

Thus  far  all  went  smoothly.  Then  Juliet 
begins  to  grow  inquisitive  and  asks  a  ques- 
tion which  her  Romeo  is  not  as  yet  prepared 
to  answer : 

"O,  Romeo,  Romeo,  wherefore  art  thou    Romeo?" 

Sam  paused,  took  his  eyes  from  his  Juliet, 
and  cast  them  inquiringly  over  the  parquet 
and  around  the  tiers  of  boxes,  as  if  he  thought 
it  necessary  to  count  up  their  contents  before 
he  could  satisfactorily  answer  her  question. 


SAM    HEMPLE.  JJ 

Then  bringing  his  eyes  back  again  to 
Juliet  he  spoke : 

"I'll  tell  thee  love,  but  not  to-night; 
Ere  set  of  the  to-morrow's  sun  I'll  know 
What  now  is  hid  behind  the  veil 
Of  secrecy.     This  seems  a  goodly  house 
And  on  the  boodle's  count  I  hope  to  show 
Good  cause  why  I  to-night  am  Romeo." 

Another  problem  now  puzzled  her.  How 
was  it  possible  for  that  three-hundred  pounds 
of  sweetness  to  get  "over  the  garden  wall"  ? 
She  was  determined  to  know. 

"How  cam'st  thou  hither?     Tell  me  and  wherefore; 
The  orchard  walls  are  high  and  hard  to  climb." 

Sam  was  quite  willing  to  enlighten  her, 
but  could  n't  do  it  truthfully  and  stick  to 
the  text.     So  he  changed  the  latter. 

"  'With  Love's  light  wings  did  I  o'erperch 

them ;' 
So  Shakspere  says;  and  doubtless  such 

a  plan 
Might  do  for  common  Romeos;  but  I 
That  am  not  shaped  for  perching  walls 

nor  made 
For  sportive  tricks" — 


78  WAGS  OF  THE   STAGE. 

Here  Sam  struck  a  snag.  He  found  he 
was  getting  Romeo  mixed  up  with  Richard 
and  as  he  couldn't  play  both  parts  at  once 
he  snapped  the  thread  of  his  blank  verse 
and  wound  up  his  information  in  pure  prose. 

"Well,  Miss  Juliet,  as  I  don't  want  to  keep 
you  out  all  night  and  give  you  your  death  of 
cold,  I'll  cut  the  matter  short.  Shakspere's 
plan  would  never  work  with  a  Romeo  of  my 
calibre.  Oh  no !  If  I  had  waited  for  the  aid 
of  Cupid's  wings  to  lift  me  over  that  fence 
you  wouldn't  have  seen  me  here  till  Dooms- 
day.    I  found  the  back  gate  open !" 

Sam's  versatility  and  ambition,  it  seems, 
didn't  end  with  his  performance  of  Romeo. 
On  one  occasion  he  said  to  me :  "Romeo  ? 
pooh !  pooh !  Anybody  can  play  Romeo ; 
but  Juliet,  that's  another  matter.  Charlotte 
Cushman  once  said :  'The  part  of  Juliet  is 
the  most  difficult  one  in  the  whole  range  of 
Shakspere's  female  characters,  and  no 
actress  can  grasp  its  underlying  subtlety  and 
play  the  part  until  she  has  grown  too  old  to 
look  it.'  That  was  Charlotte's  opinion,  and 
I  don't  dispute  it;  but  I  intend  to  show  the 


SAM    HEMPLE,  79 

public  some  day,  what  I  can  do  with  it.  I 
may  be  too  young  to  'grasp  its  underlying 
subtlety,'  but  you  can  bet  your  bottom  dol- 
lar, if  you  have  one,  that  I  will  give  'em 
more  Juliet  for  their  money  than  their  sweet 
philosophy  ever  dreampt  of!" 


p.  T.  Barnum. 


BARNUM  says,  in  his  book  of  "Forty 
Years'  Recollections,"  "I  began  the 
world  with  nothing  and  barefooted  at 
that."  If  this  be  so — and  we  have  no  reason 
to  doubt  his  word — he  deserves  a  mighty 
deal  of  credit  for  the  pluck  with  which  he 
battled  with  the  world  and  laid  it  at  his  feet. 

The  showman  never  was  an  actor,  al- 
though he  tells  us  he  was  once  forced  to 
"black  up"  and  go  on  as  a  substitute  for  one 
of  his  negro  minstrels  that  left  him  in  the 
lurch.  Taking  this  into  consideration,  to- 
gether with  the  fact  of  his  having  been  long 
and  closely  connected  with  the  stage,  I  feel 
justified  in  giving  his  name  a  place  on  the 
list  in  its  wags. 

Barnum  started  his  life  as  a  showman  in 
1835  by  exhibiting  Joyce  Heth,  the  hundred- 
and-sixty-one-year-old  negro  who  was  de- 
clared  to  have  been  the  nurse  of  George 


p.   T.   BARNUM. 
From  the  collection  of  James  D.  Slade. 


p.  T.  BARNUM.  8l 

Washington.  Whether  she  ever  had  been 
or  not  made  but  Httle  difference  so  long  as  a 
confiding  pubHc  beHeved  that  the  shriveled 
old  creature  they  were  gazing  at  had  dandled 
in  her  arms  the  babe  that  was  destined  to  be 
the  father  of  its  country. 

Barnum  was  the  Prince  of  Showmen,  and 
also  the  Prince  of  Humbugs — if  we  are  to 
believe  the  man  himself.    This,  however,  was 
no  discredit  to  him,  but  rather  the  reverse. 
A   showman's    chief   duty,    as    well    as    his 
policy,   is  to  please  the  public  and  humor 
their  whims  and  wants.     Barnum  knew  how 
to  do  both.     He  had  n't  been  long  in  the 
business  before  he  saw  that  they  had  a  rav- 
enous appetite  for  humbug.    "That's  the  sort 
of  food  they're  hungry  for,  is  it?    Well,  I'll 
give  it  to  'em  fresh  from  the  griddle !"    And 
he  did.     He  scoured  the  world  for  his  hum- 
bug, opened  a  museum  and  filled  it  with  the 
freaks  he  had  gathered  from  every  quarter 
of  the  globe — freaks  which  the  unsophisti- 
cated public  believed  that  Nature  had  been 
guilty  of.     Such  a  belief  was  a  cruel  slander 
on  the  good  Dame.     It  is  true,  she  has  been 


82  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

guilty  of  doiiig  some  queer  things,  and,  pos- 
sibly, of  making  some  mismatches;  but  I 
don't  think  she  ever  created  a  mermaid  bv 
sewing  the  tail  of  a  fish  on  the  body  of  one  of 
her  monkeys. 

Outside  and  away  from  his  business  the 
showman  had  a  hobby  which  he  took  great 
delight  in  riding — the  Temperance  cause.  It 
never  had  a  stronger  advocate  than  he,  nor 
one  who  had  made  more  convincing  speeches 
in  its  favor.  He  could  paint  the  evils  of  in- 
temperance— "the  hellish  habit  of  rum-swig- 
ging" he  called  it — in  colors  vigorous  enough 
to  cause  the  moderate  drinker  to  stick  to  his 
ice-water  straight,  and  the  toper  to  lose  all 
appetite  for  his  morning  cocktail. 

Such  was  the  burden  of  his  speeches,  and 
never,  but  once,  did  I  have  reason  to  doubt 
that  his  honest  convictions  were  at  the  bot- 
tom of  them.  The  story  of  that  doubt  may 
interest  the  reader. 

It  was  somewhere  in  the  '6o's  that  New 
York's  theatrical  managers,  of  whom  Barn- 
um  was  one,  began  to  grow  alarmed  over  the 
repeated  demands  of  their  orchestras  for  in- 


p.   T.   BARNUM.  83 

creased  salaries.  To  fight  the  situation  suc- 
cessfully they  decided  to  form  a  "Union," 
which  they  did  under  the  title  of  "The  Board 
of  Associate  Managers  of  New  York."  They 
now  felt  strong  enough  to  threaten  their 
greedy  fiddlers  that  if  there  were  any  more 
cries  for  increased  salaries  they  would 
abolish  their  orchestras,  hire  a  piano,  and 
get  along  without  fiddlers. 

The  Board  met  once  a  month,  or  oftener 
if  occasion  required,  in  its  rooms  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan Hotel.  These  rooms  had  been  ex- 
pressly fitted  up  for  the  convenience  of  the 
managers  and  nothing  was  omitted  that 
would  tend  to  cater  to  their  ease  and  com- 
fort. 

At  the  far  end  of  one  room  was  a  recess, 
the  interior  of  which  was  concealed  by  a  pair 
of  damask  curtains;  not  entirely  concealed, 
however,  for  between  the  folds  of  the  drapery 
a  sideboard  could  be  seen,  with  shelves  that 
glistened  with  a  spread  of  cut-glass  decant- 
ers, and  goblets,  and  tumblers;  all  of  which 
indicated  that  however  timid  a  New  York 
manager  might  be  in  some  things,  he  was 


84  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

not  afraid  "to  put  an  enemy  in  his  mouth" 
even  at  the  risk  of  being  robbed  of  his  brains. 

I  was  present  at  one  of  the  Board's  meet- 
ings, as  a  deputy  of  the  manager  of  Niblo's 
who  was  unable  to  attend.  Barnum  was  also 
there,  and  I  was  curious  to  know  how  the 
great  advocate  of  Temperance  would  look 
upon  the  contents  of  that  recess,  and  how  he 
would  conduct  himself  after  the  Board  had 
finished  its  labors  and  was  ready  to  take  a 
spiritual  rest. 

My  curiosity  had  n't  long  to  wait.  The 
Board  hurried  through  its  business,  which 
was  not  of  great  importance,  and  then  all 
the  managers  rose  from  their  seats  and  start- 
ed in  single  file  for  the  recess.  I  should  have 
said  all  but  one.  Barnum  stuck  to  his  chair. 
Perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  he 
thought  his  chair  the  safest  place  for  a  tem- 
perance orator.  But  whatever  he  thought, 
there  he  sat,  twiddling  his  thumbs,  but  other- 
wise as  immovable  as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar. 
Then  I  saw  Lester  Wallack  turn  back,  walk 
toward  him,  and  speak  in  a  low  but  earnest 
tone : 


p.    T.    BARNUM.  85 

"Come,  Mr.  B'arnum,  drop  your  cold- 
water  notions  and  join  us  'for  this  occasion 
only'  in  the  frivolities  of  life." 

Barnum  said  nothing  in  reply ;  but  I  saw 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  rose  from  his  chair 
and  followed  Lester  to  the  sideboard  around 
which  the  other  managers  were  standing. 
Then  the  entertainment  began.  All  had  fill- 
ed their  glasses,  except  Barnum,  who  stood 
looking  on  in  silence,  but  with  no  indication 
that  he  intended  to  make  bibulous  use  of 
the  glass  before  him. 

Again,  with  his  hand  grasping  the  neck  of 
a  decanter,  Lester  spoke : 

"You  are  too  bashful,  Mr.  Barnum;  allow 
me  to — " 

But  the  showman  gently  pushed  the  de- 
canter aside  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Wallack.  You  know 
my  record,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  respect 
my  intention  of  keeping  it  up.  It  has  been 
the  boast  of  my  life  that  no  man  has  ever 
seen  a  drop  of  anything  stronger  than  water 
pass  my  lips.  Be  kind  enough  to  turn  your 
backs!" 


86  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

And  they  turned.  When  they  turned 
again  the  showman's  glass  was  still  empty, 
and  whether  it  had  been  anything  else  during 
the  brief  time  it  was  out  of  their  sight,  none 
of  them  knew,  and  all  of  them  were  too  con- 
siderate to  ask. 

Now,  I  know  not  what  the  private  opinion 
of  those  managers  may  have  been  regarding 
the  showman's  empty  glass,  but  my  own 
conviction  is  that  it  was  guiltless  of  any  other 
condition  than  emptiness.  He  had  worn  his 
cold-water  habit  too  long,  and  was  too  proud 
and  careful  of  its  integrity  to  permit  the 
toes  of  conviviality  to  tread  on  the  tail  of  it. 
The  bright  twinkle  which  I  saw  in  his  eye 
was  never  the  reflection  of  cut  glass  decant- 
ers, though  it  might  have  resulted  from  re- 
flection of  another  sort:  "This  job-lot  of 
old  managers  to  be  sold !"    And  he  sold  'em. 


Charles  M.  Barras. 

ALTHOUGH  Barras  could  hardly  be 
classed  among  the  stage  celebrities 
of  the  day,  yet  he  was  by  no  means  a 
bad  actor.  Eccentric  comedy  was  his  line 
and  in  this  he  reached  a  certain  degree  of 
popularity,  if  not  of  fame.  He  was  the 
author  of  several  dramas,  but  none  of  them 
added  either  to  his  fame  or  his  pocket,  save 
one — The  Black  Crook.  While  this  was  be- 
ing played  at  Niblo's  Garden  and  in  the 
height  of  its  success  Barras  had  his  head- 
quarters at  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel.  Here 
he  was  besieged,  day  and  night,  by  specu- 
lating managers  who  were  anxious  to  pur- 
chase the  right  to  play  the  "Crook." 

One  morning,  about  sunrise,  one  of  these 
ambitious  managers  stepped  up  to  the  hotel 
office  with  the  inquiry : 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Barras?" 

"He  is  in  bed  now,  I  think." 


88  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Well,  I  must  see  him  at  once  on  a  matter 
of  the  greatest  importance  to  him.  If  you 
will  be  kind  enough  to  send  up  for  him,  I 
will  wait  in  the  parlor  till  he  comes  down." 

Now  Barras  was  not  an  early  bird.  He 
was  fond  of  his  bed,  his  usual  time  of  getting 
out  of  it  being  about  lo  o'clock.  To  be 
roused  at  sunrise  and  have  his  morning's 
nap  broken  in  halves  was  something  he 
hadn't  been  used  to.  However,  when  he 
was  told  that  a  gentleman  was  in  the  parlor 
waiting  to  see  him  on  "most  important  busi- 
ness," he  got  out  of  bed. 

"Tell  the  crank  I'll  be  down  directly." 

Then  with  an  oath  or  two  he  dressed  him- 
self and  with  his  wrath  at  boiling  heat  he 
walked  down  stairs  and  into  the  parlor. 

His  greeting  of  the  manager  was  warm. 

"What  the  d — 1  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  haul- 
ing me  out  of  bed  at  this  hour?  Is  the  hotel 
on  fire?" 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Barras;  I  was  most 
anxious  to  see  you  on  a  business  matter  and 
wanted  to  be  sure  of  catching  you  in." 

"Catching  me  in?    Catching  me  in  bed,  I 


CHARLES    M.    B ARRAS.  89 

suppose  you  mean.  Well,  now  you  have 
caught  me  there,  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  would  like  to  purchase  the  right  to  play 
the  Black  Crook." 

"Play  the  Black  Crook?    Play  it  where?" 

"Oh,  in  any  city;  I'm  not  particular  which 
one." 

Barras'  wrath  now  began  to  cool ;  not  be- 
cause he  saw  the  chance  of  pocketing  a 
thousand  or  two,  but  because  he  was  fond  of 
a  joke  and  saw  an  opportunity  of  getting 
one  in  at  the  expense  of  his  early  applicant. 

"So  you  want  to  play  the  Black  Crook  and 
are  not  particular  where?" 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Barras." 

"Well,  let  me  see;  your  chances,  I  think, 
are  slim."  (Here  he  took  from  his  pocket 
a  paper,  running  his  eye  over  it  and 
mumbling  to  himself  its  supposed  contents.). 
"New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Bos- 
ton, San  Francisco,  Chicago,  New  Orleans, 
St.  Paul,  Minneapolis,  Cincinnati,  Louis- 
ville, Pittsburg,  Mobile,  Memphis,  Rich- 
mond, Omaha — I  am  very  sorry,  sir;  every 
city   and   town   is — stop   a   moment,   I   am 


90  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

wrong.  I  have  one  left,  and  since  you  say 
you  are  not  particular  it  may  be  just  the  one 
you're  looking-  for." 

The  manager  congratulated  himself  that 
his  early  call  had  shut  out  some  other  fellow, 
and  eagerly  asked : 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  city,  Mr.  Bar- 
ras?" 

Folding  up  his  paper  and  returning  it  to 
his  pocket  the  Crook's  author  replied, 
"Sitka." 

The  manager  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Barras,  I  believe  the  popula- 
tion of  Sitka  now  consists  principally  of 
Polar  bears  and  icebergs  and  I  don't  think 
they  would  take  much  interest  in  the  Black 
Crook.     I  bid  you  good  morning." 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  and  Barras  went 
back  to  his  bed  to  mend  his  broken  nap. 


^    "  ■'"- " ■  *  -^'■«. . .^!'  tf - 1^  '.          .-       ■4fl 

■jj 

mt  flfWMKl 

1 

il 

^^^^^^^^B     KJm-   1 M 

r-f 

iit 

EDWARD   A.   SOTHERX. 


Edward  A.  Sothern. 


SOTHERN  had  no  equal  as  an  eccentric 
comedian;  nor  had  he  any  as  a  wag, 
unless  it  were  Brougham.  At  one  time  it 
was  a  matter  of  doubt,  with  the  friends  of 
both,  which  was  "the  verier  wag  o'  the  two ;" 
but  the  verdict  was  finally  rendered  in  favor 
of  Sothern,  who  thenceforth  was  dubbed  the 
"Prince  of  Wags."  His  waggery,  however, 
differed  materially  from  that  of  Brougham. 
John's  humor  was  polished  and  his  jokes  so 
full  of  innocence  that  they  fell  upon  their  vic- 
tim without  bruising  his  feelings  or  ruffling 
his  self-esteem.  Ned's  waggery  had  no 
polish  nor  did  it  need  any.  His  jokes  were 
of  the  practical  type — painfully  practical. 
He  always  had  a  quiver  full  of  the  sharp- 
pointed  shafts  and  he  shot  them  out  without 
being  particular  whom  or  where  they  hit. 
Friend  or  foe  't  was  all  the  same  to  Ned.  He 
would  sell  either,  although  if  he  had  to  choose 


Q2  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

between  them  the  friend  was  sure  to  be  the 
victim.  "What's  the  use  of  a  friend  if  you're 
not  permitted  to  sell  him  ?"  was  his  argument, 
and  all  of  them  had  cause  to  know  that  he 
was  not  backward  in  making  this  friendly 
use  of  them.  Yet  they  did  n't  grumble.  They 
thought  that  a  warm  heart  lay  under  all  his 
waggery;  and  it  did — so  warm,  indeed,  that 
when  he  found  that  one  of  his  jokes  had 
jarred  a  sensitive  chord  in  a  friendly  breast, 
his  own  was  filled  with  regret  and  never  at 
rest  until  he  had  sent  his  victim  a  sop  to 
soothe  the  jar.  These  sops  were  generally  in 
the  shape  of  a  costly  gift,  and  Billy  Florence 
is  my  authority  for  saying  that  they  were 
innumerable  enough  to  rim  away  with  Soth- 
ern's  money  almost  as  fast  as  Dundreary 
brought  it  in. 

But,  as  a  rule,  his  friends  submitted  meek- 
ly to  the  selling,  and  occasionally  would  at- 
tempt to  retaliate  by  doing  a  little  of  it  on 
their  own  account.  However,  they  were  not 
so  apt  at  selling  as  at  being  sold  and  usually 
came  out  second  best. 

Before   we   follow   Sothern   through   the 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  93 

twists  of  his  waggery,  let  us  have  a  word  or 
two  about  himself  as  an  actor  and  how  he 
came  to  choose  the  stage  for  a  profession. 

Sothern  was  born  in  England.  The  year 
of  his  birth  has  slipped  my  memory  but  the 
day  of  it  he  has  himself  told  us,  and  in  a  way 
to  make  it  memorable.  'T  came  into  the 
world  on  the  first  day  of  April,  and  that  may 
account  for  Dundreary  and  his  brother  Sam 
being  such  infernal  fools !" 

Sothern's  love  for  the  stage  began  early. 
He  was  yet  a  boy  when  the  desire  to  be  an 
actor  sprouted  in  his  breast  and  soon  crowd- 
ed out  the  growth  of  other  aspirations.  His 
father,  who  looked  with  horror  on  the  pro- 
fession, pleaded  with  his  boy  and  used  every 
argument  to  turn  the  current  of  the  little  fel- 
low's ambition  into  another  channel.  He 
wished  to  make  a  preacher  of  him  or  a  law- 
yer, but  Ned  was  stubborn.  "No,  Dad,"  he 
said,  "1  would  make  a  poor  soul-saver  and  a 
worse  lawyer.  I'll  be  an  actor  or  nothing!" 
So  there  was  no  other  course  left  for  "Dad" 
save  to  yield  his  ground  and  let  the  boy  have 
his  way. 


94  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

A  few  years  passed  and  then  we  find  him 
a  member  of  an  Amateur  Dramatic  Associa- 
tion. Of  this  he  soon  became  the  "bright 
particular  star" — I  mean  its  tragic  star.  As 
for  comedy,  he  would  have  none  of  it,  for  he 
thought  the  domains  of  Thalia  were  too 
cramped  for  the  spread  of  his  genius.  Mel- 
pomene was  his  chosen  Muse.  He  would 
mount  her  broad  shoulders  and  trust  to  her 
to  carry  him  up  and  perch  him  on  the  top- 
round  of  the  Thespian  ladder.  A  strange 
hallucination;  and  equally  strange  is  it  that 
many  other  of  the  world's  greatest  comedians 
started  upon  their  career,  confident  that  Na- 
ture had  cut  them  out  for  tragedians,  and 
— like  Sothern — treading  stubbornly  the 
wrong  road,  until  the  finger  post  of  Chance 
pointed  out  the  right  one. 

It  was  while  he  was  in  the  budding  years 
of  his  stage  ambition  that  a  philosophic 
friend  volunteered  this  advice :  "You  in- 
tend to  go  on  the  stage?  Well,  no  man  can 
get  along  in  that  profession  without  push, 
and  no  actor  can  push  very  hard  unless  he 
himself  be  hard-pushed.     If  the  price  of  a 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  95 

dinner  is  always  in  his  pocket,  when  he  needs 
a  dinner,  what's  the  use  of  his  working 
for  it?  No,  my  young  friend,  money  is  the 
millstone  that  hangs  around  the  neck  of  suc- 
cess. If  you  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  have 
any  of  it,  the  sooner  you  get  rid  of  the  mill- 
stone the  better — that  is,  if  you  ever  expect 
to  become  a  great  actor." 

This  anomalous  bit  of  advice  was  not  hard 
for  Sothern  to  follow.  It  was  just  in  his 
line,  for  his  nature  was  of  that  easy-going 
sort  that  looks  out  for  to-day  and  lets  to- 
morrow take  care  of  itself.  He  had  some 
ready  cash  and  without  delay  proceeded  to 
get  rid  of  it.  When  his  "millstone"  had 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  shilling,  he  thought 
he  was  properly  cocked  and  primed  to  start 
on  the  theatrical  road  to  fame,  which  he  did 
by  joining  a  company  in  a  little  country 
town.  Here  under  the  name  of  Stuart  he 
played  a  variety  of  parts,  proving  that  he 
possessed  remarkable  versatility  if  not  ex- 
traordinary genius. 

After  a  few  years'  experience  on  the 
English    stage,    he    resolved    to    come    to 


0)6  WAGS   OF  THE   STAGE. 

America,  where  his  name  was  already  favor- 
ably known  to  oiir  theatrical  managers.  He 
first  appeared  in  this  country  at  one  of  the 
Boston  theatres,  not  as  a  star  but  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  company,  and  still  retaining  his 
stage  name  of  .Stuart.  On  his  opening  night, 
strange  to  say,  he  failed  to  please  the  audi- 
ence and  therefore  failed  to  please  the  man- 
ager. He  was  not  discouraged — his  obsti- 
nate perseverance,  and  faith  in  his  own 
capacity  prevented  anything  of  that  kind — 
but  rather  than  waste  his  time  in  fighting 
with  an  unpropitious  beginning,  he  came  to 
New  York  and  accepted  an  engagement  at 
Barnum's  Museum.  At  the  end  of  his  en- 
gagement wth  Barnum,  he  played  as  a  stock 
actor  in  several  other  cities  at  various  times 
and  finally  settled  down  with  Lester  Wal- 
lack's  company.  Here  he  dropped  the  name 
of  Stuart  and  resumed  his  own.  He  remain- 
ed with  Wallack  for  several  seasons,  and 
then  signed  a  contract  with  Laura  Keene, 
whose  theatre  was  then  on  Broadway.  This 
was  the  break  'o  day  for  his  fame  and  for- 
tune, and  both  came  to  him  in  this  way : 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  9/ 

During  rehearsal  one  day  Miss  Keene  said 
to  him :  "Mr.  Sothern,  I  am  about  to  ask 
a  favor  of  you;  will  you  do  it?" 

■"Certainly,  Miss  Keene;  what  is  it?" 

"I  am  in  a  quandary.  Next  week  I  will 
be  forced  to  put  on  a  play  as  a  stop-gap,  and 
I  would  like  you  take  part  in  it," 

"What  is  the  play?" 

"Our  American  Cousin;  and  I  have  no 
other  gentleman  in  the  company  than  your- 
self to  cast  for  the  part  of  Lord  Dundreary." 

"Well,  Miss  Keene,  I  have  never  read  the 
play  but  will  take  it  home  and  let  you  know 
to-morrow." 

Now,  Tom  Taylor  has  written  many  good 
plays,  but  "Our  American  Cousin"  is  not 
one  of  them,  Asa  Trenchard  is  supposed  to 
be  the  chief  character,  while  Dundreary 
flounders  through  the  forty  or  fifty  insipid 
lines  which  the  author  has  given  him  and 
which  Sothern  was  not  slow  to  see  would 
add  but  little  to  the  reputation  of  the  unlucky 
actor  whose  lot  it  would  be  to  speak  them. 
So  he  told  Miss  Keene  he  was  sorry  he  could 
not  accept  the  part. 


98  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"But,  Mr.  Sothern,  what  am  I  to  do?  I 
have  no  other  piece  and  as  I  do  not  wish  to 
close  my  theatre  for  a  week,  I  do  hope  you 
will  oblige  me  by  consenting  to  play  the 
part." 

Her  plea  was  so  earnest  and  warm  that  the 
soft  heart  of  Sothern  began  to  melt. 

"Well,  Miss  Keene,  I  will  oblige  you  and 
play  the  part,  but  on  one  condition." 

"Only  one  condition?  Name  a  dozen  if 
you  like.    ¥/hat  is  it?" 

"To  say  what  I  like  in  the  lines  and 
arrange  them  to  suit  myself." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  that.  If  I  may 
put  your  name  on  the  bills  as  Dundreary, 
you  may  rewrite  the  whole  part  if  you 
choose." 

And  he  did  rewrite  it.  He  filled  the  vapid 
part  with  life  and  a  mass  of  delicious  absurd- 
ity that  saved  the  play  and  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  his  fame  and  fortune. 

Of  course,  none  other  than  the  brain  of  a 
wag  could  create  a  Dundreary,  and  we  nat- 
urally look  for  ebullitions  of  the  actor's  wag- 
gery off  the  stage  when  he  drops  his  profes- 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  QQ 

sional  work  to  indulge  in  it.  And  he  often 
did. 

I  have  said  that  in  the  distribution  of  his 
jokes  he  never  forgot  his  friends.  Billy 
Florence  was  one  of  them,  and  a  most  inti- 
mate one,  therefore  he  was  a  frequent  victim 
of  Ned's  waggery — and,  perhaps,  the  only 
victim  who  could  properly  appreciate  it.  To 
do  this  required  an  abundance  of  good 
nature,  and  Billy  had  enough  of  that  article 
to  meet  all  demands. 

One  night,  in  the  box-office  of  Niblo's,  he 
told  me  how  Sothern  had  played  one  of  his 
jokes  upon  him,  but  told  it  in  such  an 
unctuous  way  I  thought  he  rather  liked  the 
experience  and  would  n't  have  missed  it  for 
the  world. 

"Yesterday  morning."  he  said,  "I  was 
awakened  by  a  loud  yelping  and  barking  of 
dogs  in  the  street,  and  directly  in  front  of  my 
house.  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  raised  the 
window  sash,  and  looking  out  saw  a  strange 
crowd  of  men  and  boys  that  reached  from 
the  stoop  of  my  house  to  the  curb  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  street.     I  say  a  strange 


lOO  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

crowd,  for  every  man  and  boy  had  a  dog 
under  his  arm  or  else  was  provided  with  a 
basket  piled  up  with  a  litter  of  pups.  I  have 
seen  not  a  few  dog-shows  in  my  day,  but 
never  a  one  that  could  boast  of  a  greater  va- 
riety of  the  canine  tribe.  There  were  pugs  and 
poodles,  spaniels  and  collies,  pointers  and 
setters,  rat-terriers  and  skye-terriers,  mon- 
grels and  full  breeds — in  fact,  I  don't  think 
there  was  any  of  the  whole  tribe  that  did  n't 
have  a  representative,  either  in  a  whelp  or  a 
full-grown  form. 

"As  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  window  and 
looked  over  the  crowd,  every  fellow  in  it 
held  up  his  dog  with  a  shout:  'Here  he  is, 
Mr.  Florence;  this  is  the  fellow  you  are 
looking  for,  and  you  can  have  him  cheap.' 

"With  a  puzzled  head  I  turned  round  to 
Mrs.  Florence,  who  had  also  been  drawn  to 
the  window  by  the  racket  beneath  it :  'Can 
you  imagine,  my  dear,  the  meaning  of  all 
this?' 

"  'The  meaning?  Yes,  it  is  plain  enough 
to  me;  this  is  another  of  Ned  Sothern's 
jokes.    And,  look,  there  he  is  himself!' 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  lOI 

"Yes,  there  he  was,  standing  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  street,  without  a  smile 
on  his  face,  and  looking  as  innocent  as  a 
country  clown.  Putting  on  his  eye-glasses, 
he  stared  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  turning 
to  a  boy  who  was  holding  up  a  yellow  cur 
for  my  approval,  I  heard  him  ask,  'Can  you 
tell  me,  my  lad,  who  lives  in  this  house,  and 
who  is  that  queer  person  who  is  shaking  his 
fist  at  us  ?' 

"  'Why,  don't  you  know  ?  Billy  Florence, 
the  actor  lives  there,  and  he  advertised  this 
morning  for  some  dogs.' 

"  'Oh,  I  understand  now,'  said  Sothern. 
'He  is  tired  of  acting  and  is  going  into  the 
dog  business.' 

"Then  with  a  dreamy,  unrecognizing 
glance  at  me  through  his  eye-glasses,  he 
walked  leisurely  down  the  street. 

"I  was  curious  to  see  the  advertisement 
that  had  drawn  such  a  crowd,  and  picking 
up  the  morning's  Herald  found  this  one 
among  the  wants : 

"  'The  advertiser  is  in  want  of  a  number 
of  dogs,  including  spitz,  skye-terriers,  black- 


102  WAGS  OF  THE   STAGE. 

and-tans,  setters,  collies,  poodles,  etc.  Dog 
dealers  or  others  can  apply  at  my  residence 
from  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  three 
in  the  afternoon.  W.  J.  Florence.'  '' 

Sothern's  jokes  were  not  always  premedi- 
tated. They  would  pop  out  sometimes  when 
they  were  least  expected,  and  he  would  see 
opportunities  to  wedge  them  in  that  would 
be  invisible  to  the  ordinary  joker.  On  one 
occasion  he  entered  a  hardware  store  with 
a  friend,  and  with  the  original  intention  of 
buying  a  file.  As  soon  as  the  clerk  approach- 
ed, Sothern  saw  a  chance  for  a  joke,  and  he 
couldn't  resist  it. 

"What  is  it  you  want,  sir?"  asked  the 
clerk. 

"I  want  to  purchase  a  set  of  Fielding's 
Works,"  said  Sothern. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  to  a  bookseller: 
this  is  a  hardware  store." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  particular  about  the  binding; 
if  you  have  n't  it  in  calf,  cloth  will  do." 

"But  I  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  rais- 
ing his  voice^  "we  don't  sell  books." 

"Four  volumes,  you  say?    Well  it  does  n't 


EDWARD  A.   SOTHERN.  I03 

matter  whether  it  is  in  four  volumes  or  four 
dozen.    Let  me  have  it." 

Clerk  (still  raising  his  voice),  "I  tell  you, 
sir,  this  is  not  a  bookseller's." 

"No,  you  needn't  send  it  home.  Wrap  it 
up  and  I'll  take  it  with  me." 

"Sir,"  shouted  the  man,  "don't  I  tell  you 
that  this  is  a  hardware  store?  We  don't  sell 
books." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  wrap  it  in. 
Brown  paper  will  do ;  the  sort  of  stuff  your 
grandmother  uses  to  wrap  up  her  pickles." 

The  clerk  was  now  convinced  that  his 
queer  customer  was  either  very  hard  of  hear- 
ing or  a  lunatic ;  and,  as  he  was  rather  in- 
clined to  believe  that  the  latter  was  the  dif- 
ficulty, he  went  to  the  rear  of  the  store  and 
asked  his  employer  to  come  forward  and  help 
him  wait  on  a  crazy  man.  The  proprietor 
then  walked  toward  Sothern,  and  in  a  gentle 
tone  of  voice,  intended  to  be  soothing  to  the 
shaky  mind  of  a  lunatic,  said :  "What  can 
I  do  to  oblige  you,  sir?" 

"Well,"  replied  Sothern,  in  an  equally 
gentle  tone,  "I  wish  to  purchase  a  small  file 


104  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

about  six  inches  long ;  but  3^our  clerk  does  n't 
seem  to  understand  me.  Have  you  such  a 
thing?" 

"Certanly,  sir,"  said  the  proprietor,  and 
handed  out  the  file.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
clerk,  with  a  look  of  pity  and  a  side-speech : 
"I  think  the  crazy  man  is  on  the  other  side 
of  the  counter." 

Sothern  then  picked  up  his  purchase  and 
walked  out  with  his  friend. 

During  the  wag's  engagement  at  Laura 
Keene's  a  huge  practical  joke  was  played 
upon  the  credulity  of  the  New  Yorkers,  and 
they  were  not  a  little  curious  to  discover  the 
father  of  it.  It  was  known  as  the  "Professor 
B'iglie  Hoax,"  and  bore  all  the  features  of 
being  the  offspring  of  Sothern's  facetious 
brain.  He  denied  the  fatherhood,  however, 
but  his  friends  accepted  his  denial  with  a 
very  big  grain  of  salt.  They  were  satisfied, 
as  everybody  else  was  disposed  to  be,  that 
no  other  wag  than  Sothern  could  invent  a 
joke  that  would  befool  so  many  Gothamites. 
It  does  seem  rather  strange  that  in  a  city 
containing    so    much    worldly  wisdom  and 


EDWARD   A.    SOTHERN.  105 

wickedness,  a  joke  of  such  a  character  could 
find  enough  innocent  creduHty  to  feed  upon. 
But  it  did  find  it  and  in  this  way.  In  all  the 
daily  papers,  and  in  flaring  posters,  the  fol- 
lowing announcement  astonished  the  eye  of 
the  reader ; 

Flight   Extraordinary ! 

During  the  past  few  years  science  has  taken  such 
long  and  rapid  strides  that  nothing  seems  to  be  be- 
yond its  reach.  What  is  deemed  impossible  to-day, 
becomes  an  accomplished  fact  to-morrow.  We  talk 
now  across  the  ocean,  and  there  is  a  flattering  pros- 
pect that  we  will  soon  be  able  to  fly  across  it,  and  in 
a  much  shorter  time  than  it  now  takes  steam  to 
transport  us. 

The  undersigned,  after  years  of  study  and  experi- 
ment, has  invented  a  means  of  navigating  the  air. 
He  uses  no  balloon  or  other  gas-filled  machine,  but 
wings  his  flight  after  the  manner  of  a  bird,  and  quite 
as  safely,  and  nearly  as  swiftly.  He  will  give  an 
exhibition  to-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock  precisely,  taking 
his  flight  from  the  top  of  Trinity  Church  steeple, 
across  to  Jersey  City  and  back.  He  expects  to  make 
the  round  trip  in  less  than  three  ininutes. 

Prof.  Cantell  A.  Biglie. 

Curiosity  not  only  nibbled  at  the  bait,  but 
swallowed  it,  hook  and  all.  Long  before  lo 
o'clock  a  crowd  began  to  gather  in  front  of 
the  church,  and  when  the  hour  arrived  for 
the  professor's  flight,  that  part  of  Broadway 


I06  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

was  completely  blocked  by  a  mass  of  impa- 
tient humanity,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
top  of  Trinity's  steeple,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  him  emerge  and  take  his 
"flight  extraordinary." 

But  he  did  n't  emerge.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  elapsed,  and  then  some  fellow  in  the 
crowd  shouted,  "The  professor  is  coming 
out  on  the  other  side  of  the  steeple."  But 
as  there  are  four  sides  to  every  steeple,  the 
crowd  were  in  doubt  which  way  they  ought 
to  rush.  Some  hurried  in  one  direction  and 
some  in  another,  until  a  loud  voice  uttered 
three  words,  which  relieved  them  of  their 
doubt :     "First  of  April." 

It  was  really  astonishing  to  find  how  many 
people  there  were  in  that  crowd  who  had 
never  heard  of  the  professor,  and  did  n't  care 
a  continental  whether  he  flew  or  not.  They 
said  they  were  there  on  business,  and  judg- 
ing from  the  way  in  which  they  hurried  into 
the  various  shops  and  brokers'  offices,  maybe 
they  were.  Anyhow,  if  they  had  been  curi- 
ous enough  to  dissect  the  professor's  signa- 
ture  at    the   bottom   of   his    advertisement, 


EDWARD  A.    SOTHERN.  I07 

they  would  have  learned  that  even  a  Profes- 
sor Coji-trll-a-big-lic. 

Sothern  died  twenty  years  ago,  leaving 
behind  him  a  distinguished  successor  in  his 
son,  Edward  H.,  whose  name  and  fame  as  a 
star  have  now  the  world's  due  recognition. 


James  Quin. 


ONE  of  the  famed  actors  of  the  English 
stage,  in  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth 
century,  was  James  Quin.  He  was  the  great 
Falstaff  of  his  day,  and  greater  in  the  part 
than  had  been  any  of  his  predecessors,  with 
the  exception  of  Betterton.  But  Quin  was 
famous,  not  alone  as  an  actor,  but  as  a  duelist, 
an  epicure  and  a  wag.  He  was  ever  ready 
with  his  sword  to  resent  an  insult,  and,  in 
consequence,  had  three  encounters — in  two 
of  which  his  adversaries  paid  the  penalty  of 
the  insult  with  their  lives.  His  epicurean- 
ism was  unquestioned.  It  was  of  the  Apician 
type,  and  he  was  such  a  faithful  disciple  of 
the  Roman  gourmand  that  he  declared  he 
would  be  content  to  follow  him  out  of  the 
world  rather  than  be  forced  to  live  in  it  on  a 
plain  diet.  He  loved  good  wine,  and  we  can 
measure  the  depth  of  his  love  by  what  him- 
self has  told  us :    "Oh,  that  my  mouth  were 


JAMES    OUIN. 


JAMES  QUIN.  109 

as  large  as  the  arch  of  Westminster  Bridge, 
and  the  river  ran  Burgundy."  Another  out- 
burst of  his  bacchanalian  longings  we  find  in 
his  soliloquy  over  the  embalmed  body  of 
Duke  Humphrey,  while  it  lay  in  the  Cathe- 
dral of  vSt.  Albans : 

''Oh  plague  on   Egypt's  Arts,  I  say ! 
Embalm  the  dead !     On  senseless  clay 

Rich    wines    and    spices    waste ! 
Like  sturgeon,  or  like  brawn,  shall  I 
Bound  in   a  precious  pickle   lie. 

Which  I  can  never  taste? 

"Let  me  embalm  this  flesh  of  mine 
With  turtle  fat  and  Bordeaux  wine 

x\nd  spoil  the  Egyptian  trade ! 
Than  Humphrey's  Duke  more  happy  I — 
Embalmed  alive,  old  Quin  shall  die 

A  mummy  ready  made." 

As  is  sometimes  the  case  with  epicures. 
Quin  was  an  expert  cook.  He  knew  how  to 
utilize  the  resources  of  the  cuisine,  and  could 
turn  out  a  new  dish  with  all  the  ingenuity  of 
a  Savarin.  His  friends  were  aware  of  this. 
Among  them  were  many  slaves  of  the  table, 
like  himself,  and  when  they  heard  of  one  of 
his  kitchen  novelties  they  never  let  him  rest 
until  they  had  wormed  the  recipe  out  of  him. 
His  home  was  at  Bath,  and  he  often  delight- 


I  lO  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

ed  the  stomachs  of  his  townsmen  with  one 
of  his  inventions,  for  which  he  was  never  at 
a  loss  for  a  name  as  novel  as  the  dish.  One 
of  these  he  called  "Soup  a  la  Siam/'  the  in- 
gredients of  which  he  pretended  were  sent  to 
him  from  the  East.  His  friends  were  wild 
in  their  praises  of  its  excellence,  and  began, 
as  usual,  to  besiege  him  with  requests  for  the 
recipe.  But  Quin  was  deaf  to  all  their  en- 
treaties. He  refused  to  part  with  his  secret, 
putting  off  his  female  friends  with  promises, 
while  those  of  the  other  sex  had  to  be  con- 
tent with  a  blunt  denial. 

The  Bath  boii-z'iz'cmts  then  resolved  upon 
another  course  to  obtain  their  end.  "If  he 
won't  give  us  the  recipe  we'll  worry  the  life 
out  of  him,  and  give  him  no  peace."  With 
this  intent  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  male  con- 
spirators put  their  heads  together,  and  day 
after  day  flooded  the  actor  with  anonymous 
letters,  the  burden  of  which  was  made  up  of 
praises  for  his  "Siam."  and  reminders  of  the 
injury  he  was  inflicting  upon  humanity  by 
withholding  from  it  the  recipe. 

Quin  suspected  the  source  of  the  letters, 


JAMES  QUIN.  Ill 

and  being  convinced  that  the  design  of  the 
writers  was  to  badger  him,  determined  to 
take  his  revenge.  His  manner  of  taking  it 
was  worthy  of  the  wag.  He  wrote  to  each 
of  the  suspected  ones,  inviting  them  all  to 
dine  with  him  on  a  certain  dav,  and  teUingf 
them  tliat  he  had  invented  another  dish 
especially  for  the  occasion,  and  which,  he 
assured  them,  surpassed  even  the  "Siam" 
in  delicacy  of  flavor.  He  also  promised  to 
let  them  have  the  recipe  for  its  preparation, 
if  they  desired  it. 

Of  course,  the  invitation  was  gladly  ac- 
cepted. The  day  came,  and  when  all  were 
seated  at  the  table  the  new  dish  was  brought 
in,  and  Ouin  opened  the  ceremonies  with  a 
short  speech : 

"Gentlemen,  before  you  begin,  let  me  say 
that  your  reputation  as  gourmets  is  so  well 
known  to  me  that  I  would  n't  venture  to  set 
before  you  a  dish  unless  it  were  of  extraor- 
dinary excellence.  I  call  my  new  invention 
'Puree  a  la  Calf,'  and  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
so  pleased  with  it  that  the  'Siam'  will  linger 
no  longer  in  your  recollection.     As  for  me. 


1 12  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  am  a  little  under  the 
weather,  and  must  confine  myself  for  a  day 
to  simpler  diet.  Now,  gentlemen,  for  your 
verdict." 

The  verdict  was  unanimous.  They  all 
vowed  that  never  had  they  tasted  a  soup  so 
deliciously  seasoned,  nor  one  that  could  com- 
pare with  it  in  the  delicacy  of  its  flavor. 

"You  are  right,  Mr.  Quin.  You  have  in- 
deed surpassed  yourself  with  your  new  in- 
vention and  made  us  forget  the  'Siam.' 
And  now  for  your  promise." 

And  each  guest  pulled  out  his  tablets  and 
prepared  to  write  down  the  recipe. 

"My  promise?  What  promise?"  asked 
Quin. 

"Why,  that  you  would  give  us  the  recipe." 

"I  don't  remember  making  any  such 
promise." 

His  guests,  however,  were  not  to  be  put 
off  so  easily.  They  locked  the  door  and 
told  him  plainly  that  they  would  n't  leave 
the  room,  nor  should  he,  until  he  had  re- 
deemed his  promise  by  giving  them  the 
recipe. 


JAMES  QUIN.  113 

With  some  stammering  and  a  good  deal 
of  seeming  reluctance,  Quin  finally  yielded. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  my  memory  may  be  at 
fault,  and  since  you  insist  that  I  made  the 
promise,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  keep  it 
Here  is  the  recipe,  which  I  will  read  to  you,, 
but  please  don't  interrupt  me  until  I  am 
through.  In  the  first  place,  take  a  pair  of 
old  boots — the  older  the  boots,  the  better  will 
be  the  flavor  of  the  soup — cut  off  their  tops 
and  soles  and  soak  them  over  night  in  a  pail 
of  warm  water.  In  the  morning  take  them  out 
and  chop  them  up  into  fine  particles,  like 
mincemeat;  then  throw  them  into  a  copper 
kettle,  adding  the  water  in  which  they  were 
soaked,  also  some  sage,  three  or  four  minced 
onions,  spices  to  suit  the  taste,  a  little  salt, 
a  small  piece  of  ham  and  a  glass  of  good 
sherry.  Simmer  the  whole  for  three  hours 
and  serve  hot." 

There  was  no  perceptible  change  in  the 
countenance  of  Quin  while  reading  his 
recipe,  but  he  had  barely  finished  the  first 
line  of  it  when  the  faces  of  his  guests  began 
to  lengthen  and  lose  their  native  hue;  and 


114  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

before  he  reached  the  end  of  it  the  ruby 
cheeks  of  the  bon-vivants  were  hidden  un- 
der ''the  pale  cast  of  thought"  that  they  had 
been  poisoned. 

"Is  this  one  of  your  jokes,  Mr.  Quin,  or 
do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you  invited 
us  here  to  dine  on  old  boots?" 

"To  dine  on  old  boots?  Not  entirely," 
replied  Quin,  ''I  invited  you  here  to  try  my 
new  soup  and  give  me  your  opinion  of  it. 
You  have  done  both — swallowing  it  liber- 
ally, and  with  praises  so  loud  that  I  feel 
flattered,  coming  as  they  do  from  such  ac- 
complished gourmets.  However,  if  the  dish 
has  proved  too  rich,  even  for  your  educated 
stomachs,  don't  be  alarmed — there 's  an 
apothecary's  shop  just  around  the  corner." 

They  thought  the  hint  apropos  and  took 
it.  Without  waiting  for  the  remainder  of 
the  dinner,  they  seized  their  hats,  hurried 
from  the  house  and  '"around  the  corner," 
where,  by  the  aid  of  "ipecac,"  or  some  other 
prophylactic  persuasive,  they  were  relieved  of 
Quin's  "Puree  a  la  Calf." 

It  was  needless  for  Quin  to  mention — • 


JAMES  QUIN.  115 

for  the  world  would  have  surmised  it — "I 
am  no  one-bottle  man,  and  pity  him  who 
can't  stow  away  a  half-dozen  without  stow- 
ing himself  away  under  the  table."  Yet 
e^■en  a  wine-butt  has  its  limit,  and  notwith- 
standing the  capactiy  of  the  old  comedian, 
he  was  not  without  a  goodly  share  of  under- 
the-table  experience. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  Quin  was  a  "jolly 
good  fellow"  in  the  eye  of  his  brother- 
actors,  and  therefore  had  a  multitude  of 
friends  among  them.  But  there  was  one  he 
was  proud  to  distinguish  as  his  "bosom- 
friend" — Samuel  Foote.  It  seems  a  little 
strange  that  two  men  who  dififered  so  widely 
in  disposition  and  temperament  should  have 
been  drawn  so  closely  together  by  the  ties 
of  friendship.  Quin  was  full  of  good  nature 
and  good  words;  Foote  was  irascible,  with 
a  tongue  tipped  with  gall ;  Quin  would  for- 
get the  rankest  offence^,  unless  it  amounted 
to  an  insult ;  Foote  would  coddle  in  his 
bosom  the  most  trivial  one :  Ouin's  waggish- 
ness    ^vas    of    the    "give-and-take"    kind ; 

Foote's    was    all    give  and  no  take;  Quin 
9 


I  1 6  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

could  enjoy  a  joke,  made  at  his  expense, 
quite  as  much  as  one  of  his  own  that  some- 
body else  had  to  pay  for ;  Foote  would  gloat 
over  the  squirmings  of  him  who  had  been  hit 
by  his  waggery,  but  he  objected  to  being  a 
target  for  that  of  other  people.  His  sen- 
sitiveness was  so  thin-skinned  that  to  perpe- 
trate a  joke  upon  him  was  sure  to  bring  his 
everlasting  enmity  on  the  head  of  the  per- 
petrator. 

Now,  Ouin  was  well  aware  of  Foote's 
waspish  touchiness,  for  he  had  known  him 
too  long  to  be  ignorant  of  it.  Yet  he 
wouldn't  permit  a  little  matter  of  that  kind, 
nor  even  the  big  matter  of  bosom-friendship, 
to  stand  in  the  way  of  his  waggery.  His  ap- 
petite for  a  joke  was  something  which  had  to 
be  satisfied  at  whatever  cost. 

It  chanced  one  day  that  he  met  three 
of  Foote's  friends,  and,  with  a  long  face  full 
of  solemnity  and  pity,  he  began  the  conver- 
sation : 

"Poor  Foote !    I  feel  sorry  for  him." 

"Sorry  for  him?  Why,  what's  the  matter 
now?" 


JAMES  QUIN.  117 

"His  old  complaint — financial  trouble. 
You  remember  how  quickly  he  ran  through 
two  fortunes  and  now,  it  seems,  he  has  reach- 
ed the  end  of  his  third.  However,  what  I 
am  about  to  tell  you  is  in  strict  confidence 
and  you  must  promise  me  to  let  it  go  no  fur- 
ther. You  know  the  poor  fellow's  sensitive- 
ness, and  how  anxious  he  is  to  cover  up  the 
signs  of  poverty." 

They  gave  the  required  promise,  and  Quin 
continued : 

"I  called  on  him  last  Sunday  morning  and 
finding  him  in  bed  asked  him  to  get  up  and 
dress  himself,  so  that  we  might  take  a  stroll 
together.  But  with  a  heavy  sigh  he  de- 
clined." 

"Declined?    Was  he  sick?" 

"No;  he  said  his  shirt  was  in  the  custody 
of  his  washerwoman  and  he  would  have  to 
lie  abed  until  it  was  washed.  Very  sad,  isn't 
it?" 

The  story  may  have  been  sad,  but  it  was 
too  good  to  be  hidden,  even  under  the  cloak 
of  "strict  confidence."  It  wasn't  long  in 
reaching  the  ears  of  Foote,  and  so  deep  was 


Il8  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

his  chagrin  and  so  roused  his  anger  that  he 
refused  to  speak  to  Ouin  for  months  after- 
wards. Time,  however,  did  bring  about  a 
reconciliation,  but  still  the  recollection  of  the 
joke  rankled  in  the  breast  of  Foote  and  so 
sorely  that,  one  day,  he  couldn't  refrain  from 
letting  out  his  mortification : 

"Tell  me  now,  Jemmy;  how  could  you 
ever  have  said  such  a  ridiculous  thing  as 
that?" 

"As  what?"  asked  Quin. 

"Why,  that  I  had  to  lie  abed  while  having 
my  shirt  washed." 

"I  didn't  say  it,  my  boy;  how  could  I? 
I  didn't  know  you  had  a  shirt!" 

Quin's  tenderness  of  heart,  had  given  him 
a  distaste  for  angling  and  one  of  his  sport- 
ing friends  asking  him  the  reason  for  his 
aversion,  he  replied :  "Self-preservation. 
You  anglers  have  no  mercy  and  are  so  fond 
of  variety  you  might  take  it  into  your  head, 
some  day,  to  go  a-Quinning;  if  you  did,  and 
were  shrewd  enough  to  use  a  haunch  of  veni- 
son for  your  bait,  I  sh(3ukl  be  sure  to  bite  at 
it: 


JAMES  QUIN.  119 

Then  tell  me  how  would  Jemmy's  carcass 

look, 
Jerked  in  the  air  and  dangling  on  a  hook?" 

Quin  was  never  great  in  Tragedy.  His 
attempts  in  that  field  were  mediocre  and 
merely  imitations  of  Barton  Booth,  the  pupil 
and  successor  of  Betterton.  It  was  on  his 
Falstaff  that  his  reputation  was  built — a 
reputation  which  Foote  has  warmly  assured 
us  was  deserved :  'T  can  only  recommend  a 
man,  who  wants  to  see  a  character  perfectly 
played,  to  see  Mr.  Quin  in  the  part  of  Fal- 
staff; and  if  he  doesn't  express  a  desire  of 
spending  an  evening  with  that  merry  mortal, 
I  wouldn't  spend  one  with  him,  if  he  would 
pay  my  reckoning." 

It  was  in  this  part  that  Quin  made  his  last 
appearance  on  the  stage.  The  occasion  was 
a  special  one,  being  the  benefit  of  his  friend 
and  fellow-actor,  Ryan.  The  result  was 
such  a  financial  success,  that  the  beneficiary 
wrote  to  Quin  the  following  year  saying  that 
he  intended  to  take  another  benefit  and  ask- 
ing the  actor  if  he  wouldn't  do  him  the  favor 
to  appear  once  more  in  the  same  part.     But 


I20  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Quin  in  the  meantime  had  lost  two  of  his 
front  teeth — a  loss  which  interfered  so  seri- 
ously with  the  flow  of  his  speech  that  he  re- 
fused to  comply  with  his  friend's  request. 
His  letter  of  reply  to  Ryan  was  character- 
istic : 

My  Dear  Friend : 

There  is  no  person  on  earth  I  would  sooner  serve 
than  yourself ;  but,  by  G — d,  sir !  I  will  whistle  Fal- 
staff  for  no  man  ! 

James  Quin. 

From  the  time  of  his  last  appearance — ■ 
March  19th,  1753 — Quin  lived  in  retirement 
at  Bath  until  his  death,  which  occurred  on 
January  21st,  1766.  He  was  buried  in  the 
Abbey  Church  where  his  tomb  is  topped  by 
a  marble  monument  on  which  is  engraved 
the  following  epitaph  written  by  Garrick : 

"That  tongue  which  set  the  table  in  a  roar, 
And  charmed  the  public  ear  is  heard  no  more ! 
Closed  are  those  eyes,  the  harbingers  of  wit, 
Which  spake  before  the  tongue  what  Shakspere  writ; 
Ccld  is  that  hand,  which,  living,  was  stretched  forth 
At   Friendship's  call,  to  succour  modest  worth. 
Here  lies  James  Quin — Deign,  reader,  to  be  taught, 
What  e'er  thy  strength  of  body,  force  of  thought ; 
Tn  Nature's  happiest  mould,  however  cast, 
To  this  complexion  must  thou  come  at  last." 


SAMUEL  FOOTE. 


Samuel  Foote. 

FOOTE'S  name,  like  that  of  his  friend 
Quin,  holds  a  place — though  an 
equivocal  one — on  the  scroll  of  Fame.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  he  left  something  behind 
him  for  the  tongue  of  Posterity  to  talk  about, 
but  it  was  not  the  record  of  a  great  actor.  A 
great  mimic  he  surely  was,  as  well  as  a  comic 
dramatist  possessed  of  an  infinite  stock  of 
satire  and  polished  buffoonery.  As  a  play- 
wright, however,  he  had  but  little  claim  to 
excellence.  His  so-called  comedies  were 
nothing  more  than  lamely-constructed 
farces,  without  plot,  and  filled  with  witty 
attacks  upon  soiled  reputations,  and  caustic 
hits  at  the  vices  and  weaknesses  of  those 
whom  he  picked  out  for  his  gibbeting.  In 
the  flings  of  his  satire  he  was  no  respecter  of 
persons,  nor  of  things  sacred  or  profane. 
This,  very  naturally,  made  him  many  en- 
emies, but  it  tickled  the  public  taste  and  put 


122  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

money  in  his  purse — something  which  his 
extravagance  always  had  use  for,  and  some- 
thing that  it  knew  how  to  get  rid  of  in,  a 
way  to  leave  him  periodically  on  his  beam.- 
ends. 

He  made  his  first  appearance  on  the  Stage 
in  1744,  but  the  public  saw  nothing  in  him 
then  to  catch  their  fancy;  nor  was  it  until 
three  years  after  his  debut  that  he  succeeded 
in  opening  their  eyes.  He  had  tried  each  end 
of  the  Drama — Tragedy  and  Comedy — and 
failed  in  both.  Then  he  began  to  wonder 
whether  Nature  ever  intended  him  for  an 
actor :  "If  she  did,  and  I  am  fit  for  neither 
Tragedy  nor  Comedy,  what  the  d — 1  am  I  fit 
for?"  His  question  was  soon  to  be  answer- 
ed. He  was  cast  for  the  part  of  Bayes  in 
"The  Rehearsal"  and  his  success  in  it  left  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  what  he  was  "fit  for." 
Garrick  had  previously  played  the  same  part, 
introducing  imitations  of  various  actors,  and 
Foote  was  quick  to  profit  by  his  example. 

But  the  comedian  was  much  the  greater 
mimic  of  the  two.  Besides,  he  interspersed 
his  imitations  with  satirical  "gags,"  the  sub- 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.  1 23 

jects  of  which  the  audience  were  quick  to 
recognize.  Nor  did  he  confine  his  mimicry 
in  the  part  to  the  peculiarities  of  actors.  He 
brought  in  the  followers  of  all  professions 
alike,  or  such  of  them  whose  deeds  or  mis- 
deeds offered  a  mark  for  his  ridicule. 

His  phenomenal  success  as  a  mimic  led 
him  now  to  abandon  all  thought  of  again 
attempting  the  legitimate  drama,  and  to  de- 
vote his  talent  to  such  parts  in  his  own  farces 
as  were  fitted  for  it.  In  these  he  was  uni- 
formly successful;  although  his  scurrilous 
tongue  and  pen  occasionally  tangled  him  in 
the  meshes  of  the  law. 

He  once  undertook  to  lampoon  George 
Faulkner,  the  publisher  of  the  Dublin  Jour- 
nal. George  had  lost  one  of  his  legs  and  was 
forced  thereafter  to  hobble  through  the 
world  on  an  artificial  one.  Foote  thought 
that  no  man  with  "one  leg  in  the  grave," 
and  "a  wooden  understanding,"  should  be 
so  full  of  conceit  and  eccentricity,  and  there- 
fore to  give  a  "form  and  pressure"  to  his 
thought  he  brought  the  printer  into  one  of 
his  farces,  "The  Orators,"  giving  him  the 


124  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

name  of  Peter  Paragraph,  and  caricaturing 
him  so  heartlessly  that  George  turned  on 
the  wag  and  brought  an  action  for  libel. 
The  result  was  not  entirely  satisfactory  to 
the  plaintiff.  He  discovered,  as  others  have 
done  since  his  time,  that  "a  poor  man's  right 
in  the  law  hangs  like  a  fish  in  the  net." 
Foote  suffered  but  little  damage  from  the 
suit,  either  in  pocket  or  fame.  Two  months 
afterward  he  again  produced  "The  Orators" 
at  the  Haymarket,  introducing  a  new  scene 
in  which  he  caricatured  the  Judge,  the  jury, 
the  counsel  and  the  whole  of  the  Court's 
proceedings. 

It  was  during  the  progress  of  Foote's  trial 
that  Faulkner's  counsel — with  a  brain  evi- 
dently "fuddled  by  the  fumes  of  fancy" — 
likened  his  client  to  Socrates  and  dubbed  the 
mimic  "The  British  Aristophanes."  The 
comparison  was  hardly  a  happy  one.  Faulk- 
ner was  the  plaintiff  in  his  case,  while  Soc- 
rates, in  his  legal  trouble,  was  the  defend- 
ant. And  even  if  it  were  true  that  "The 
Clouds"  of  Aristophanes  furnished  a  Court 
of  Justice  with  the  hint,  and  substantially 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.  1 25 

the  grounds,  upon  which  the  bare-foot  phi- 
lospoher  was  prosecuted  and  deprived  of  his 
life,  yet  all  this  doesn't  prove  that  Foote  de- 
served the  compliment  which  the  flowery 
advocate  had  thrust  upon  him.  On  what 
then,  did  the  hyperbolist  base  the  fitness  of 
his  epithet  ?  Did  he  think  that  the  defendant 
was  a  caricaturist  of  the  Aristophanes  pat- 
tern and  therefore  entitled  to  it?  If  this 
were  his  opinion  he  has  given  us  an  apt  illus- 
tration of  the  truth  of  Pope's  line :  "A  little 
learning  is  a  dangerous  thing."  Of  course 
it  is  quite  plain  that  both  poets  were  carica- 
turists, but  it  needs  no  Socratic  subtlety  in 
a  lawyer,  nor  in  anyone  else,  to  demonstrate 
that  they  never  learned  their  trade  in  the 
same  "thinking-shop."  Foote  at  once  dis- 
claimed the  epithet,  saying  he  would  not 
point  out  the  mistake  of  the  learned  counsel 
but  would  leave  it  to  his  enemies  to  discover 
the  absurdity  of  the  comparison. 

Foote  was  no  sycophant.  He  had  but  lit- 
tle respect  for  Nobility,  and  no  regard  for 
the  reputation  of  its  lords  and  ladies  when 
they  had  none  for  it  themselves.    The  Duke 


126  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

of  Norfolk,  one  of  the  wag's  acquaintances, 
was  notoriously  fond  of  the  bottle  and  usual- 
ly carried  enough  of  it  under  his  gold-laced 
waistcoat  to  make  his  dukeship  top-heavy. 
One  day  he  said  to  Foote :  "I  am  invited  to 
a  masquerade  to-morrow  night;  can  you 
suggest  some  character  for  me  to  appear  in 
that  would  be  novel?"  "Certainly,"  replied 
the  wag — "Go  sober!" 

The  reply  was  witty,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing in  it  at  which  good-taste  could  take 
offence ;  but  his  waggery  often  did  offend  it, 
and  in  the  most  boorish  manner.  He  would 
accept  of  a  lord's  hospitality  and  then,  if  the 
dinner  didn't  exactly  please  him,  he  would 
abuse  both  his  host  and  his  entertainment. 

On  one  occasion  he  dined  with  Lord 
Townshend,  who  had  been  engaged,  the  day 
before,  in  a  duel.  When  the  dinner  was 
finished,  Foote  remarked : 

"Your  lordship  might  have  settled  with 
your  antagonist  in  a  more  deadly  way." 

"A  more  deadly  way,  Mr.  Foote?  How?" 

"By  inviting  him  to  such  a  dinner  as  this 
and  poisoning  him." 


SAMUEL  FOOTE. 


127 


Here  is  another  sample  of  his  insolent  hu- 
mor. He  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine 
with  a  certain  nobleman,  but  again  the  qual- 
ity of  the  dinner  didn't  reach  his  expecta- 
tions. On  leaving-  the  house,  he  found  the 
servants  ranged  in  line  on  each  side  of 
the  hall  waiting  for  their  customary  tip. 
"Where's  the  cook  and  butler?"  he  asked. 
When  they  stepped  forward  he  said  to  the 
cook:  'There's  a  half-crown  for  my  eat- 
ing;" then,  turning  to  the  butler:  "There  are 
five  shillings  for  my  wine;  but,  by  G — d, 
never  in  my  life  have  I  had  so  poor  a  dinner 
for  the  money." 

In  his  crabbed  moods  the  Stage  and  its 
people  would  become  the  objects  of  his  re- 
proach and  sarcasm.  He  believed,  or  feign- 
ed to  believe,  that  no  mental  qualifications 
were  required  in  the  make-up  of  an  actor, 
and  that  the  profession  itself  was  "the  last 
resource  of  ignorance,  indolence  and  vice." 
During  his  term  of  theatrical  management 
he  once  dismissed  his  prompter  from  the  po- 
sition, but  still  employed  him  at  the  same 
salary,  sending  him  on  to  play  trifling  parts. 


128  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

One  of  the  company,  on  noticing  the  change, 
said :  "So,  Mr.  Foote,  we  have  lost  our  old 
prompter."  "Yes,"  replied  Foote,  "the  fel- 
low didn't  know  enough  for  the  position;  he 
couldn't  read,  so  I  made  an  actor  of  him." 

The  wag  was  not  devoted  to  the  payment 
of  his  debts.  He  argued  that  it  was  a  bad 
habit  to  get  into  and  the  cause  of  much  ot 
the  world's  uneasiness;  "therefore,"  he  says, 
"it  would  be  good  for  every  man  to  learn  the 
art  of  not  paying  his  debts;  it  is  the  art  of 
living  without  money.  It  saves  the  trouble 
of  keeping  accounts,  and  makes  other  people 
work  for  our  repose.  It  checks  avarice  and 
encourages  generosity — as  people  are  com- 
monly more  liberal  with  the  property  of 
others  than  with  their  own.  In  short,  it 
draws  the  inquiries  and  attentions  of  the 
world  on  us  while  we  live,  and  makes  us  sin- 
cerely regretted  when  we  die." 

Among  the  many  titled  acquaintances  of 
the  comedian  was  one  Lord  Kellie.  His 
lordship  was  a  noted  wine-bibber  and  his 
countenance  was  so  lighted  up  by  the  illu- 
minating properties  of  Port  and  Burgundy, 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.  1 29 

that  in  warmth  and  brightness  it  seemed  to 
rival  the  midday  sun.  Foote  asked  him  to 
d>ne  with  him  and  his  lordship  promised  to 
do  so,  but  on  the  day  appointed  he  met  the 
actor  in  a  coffee-house  and  told  him  he  would 
have  to  break  his  promise  as  he  had  accepted 
an  invitation,  since  he  gave  it,  which  would 
compel  him  to  dine  elsewhere.  Foote  was 
displeased,  and,  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  all  the  occupants  of  the  room,  said : 
"Is  that  so,  my  lord?  Well,  since  you  can- 
not do  me  the  honor  of  dining  with  me  to- 
day, you  can  oblige  me  in  another  way.  As 
you  ride  by  my  house  be  kind  enough  to  look 
over  the  fence  and  against  my  side  wall. 
We  have  had  so  little  sun  for  the  past  fort- 
night that  my  peaches  are  pining  and  will  be 
grateful  for  a  glimpse  of  your  lordship's 
countenance." 

This  same  lord  was  fond  of  playing  prac- 
tical jokes  upon  his  friends  and  in  a  manner 
so  coarse  that  a  certain  Irish  gentleman  re- 
marked to  Foote:  "If  his  lordship  should 
undertake  to  play  one  of  his  scurvy  pranks 
on  me  I  would  pull  his  nose."     "Pull  his 


130  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

nose?"  echoed  the  wag,  "safer  to  hire  a  sala- 
mander to  do  that — unless  you  want  your 
fingers  burned." 

Whenever  Foote  had  one  of  his  impecu- 
nious attacks  he  used  all  manner  of  diplo- 
macy to  keep  the  knowledge  of  it  from  his 
friends.  He  thought  that  some  show  of 
prosperity  was  needed  for  this,  and  there- 
fore in  turning  over  his  collateral  to  his 
"Uncle"  he  would  let  everything  go  except 
his  watch.  If  he  was  minus  a  shirt,  what 
mattered  it?  He  could  button  up  his  coat, 
pull  out  his  gold  repeater,  and  who  then 
would  suspect  that  he  didn't  know  where  his 
next  meal  was  to  come  from  ?  While  strug- 
gling through  one  of  these  pinched  periods 
of  his  erratic  life  he  chanced  to  meet  Mack- 
lin,  who  had  often  been  the  victim  of  his 
jokes,  but  was  now  to  have  an  opportunity 
to  retaliate.  They  entered  a  coffee-house 
and,  as  soon  as  seated  at  one  of  the  tables, 
Foote  pulled  out  his  gold  repeater,  looked  at 
it,  dangled  it  in  his  hand,  and  then  held  it  up 
to  his  ear.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed : 
"Zounds,    Mack!   my   watch   has   stopped!" 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.  I3I 

"Never  mind,  Sam,"  said  Macklin.     "Have 
a  little  patience — it  will  soon  go!" 

A  country  gentleman,  with  whom  Foote 
was  stopping  on  a  visit,  had  just  buried  a 
relative  (an  attorney)  and  was  complaining 
of  the  expenses  attending  a  country  funeral. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  said,  "after  the  carriages, 
the  hat-bands,  the  scarfs,  and  the  other  et 
ceteras  are  paid  for,  there  is  nothing  left. 

"Is  it  possible  you  bury  your  attorneys 
here?" 

"Bury  them?  Of  course  we  do.  How 
else  could  we  dispose  of  them?" 

"Do  as  we  do  in  London.  We  never  bury 
them  there." 

"You  don't?  How  in  the  world  do  you 
get  rid  of  them?" 

"Easily  enough.  When  a  lawyer  dies  we 
lay  him  out  at  night  in  a  room  by  himself, 
throw  open  the  sash,  lock  the  door,  and  in 
the  morning  he  is  gone." 

"Gone?     Gone  where?" 

"That  we  cannot  tell.    All  we  know  is  that 
he  is  gone  and  there's  a  strong  smell  of  brim- 
stone in  the  room." 
10 


132  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Foote  once  rented  a  house  which  had  been 
advertised  as  "completely  furnished."  The 
day  after  he  took  possession  his  cook  came 
to  him  with  the  complaint  that  there  was  no 
rolling-pin  in  the  kitchen.  "No  rolling- 
pin?"  said  Foote,  "then  bring  me  a  saw  and 
I'll  make  you  one;"  which  he  did  by  sawing 
oft"  the  top  of  a  mahogany  bed-post.  The 
next  day  there  was  another  complaint — "no 
coal-scuttle  in  the  house,"  and  to  supply  one 
a  drawer  was  taken  from  a  curious  Japanese 
chest.  Then  it  was  discovered  there  was  no 
carpet  on  the  parlor  floor.  "That  will  never 
do,"  said  Foote,  "the  boards  will  be  ruined." 
So  to  "save  the  boards"  he  covered  them  over 
with  a  couple  of  new  white  counterpanes. 
When  the  landlord  came  to  see  how  his  ten- 
ant liked  his  residence,  he  was  astonished  at 
the  disordered  state  of  the  rooms  and  threat- 
ened to  sue  the  wag  for  the  injury  done  to 
his  furniture.  But  Foote  replied :  "The 
injury,  sir,  is  all  on  my  side,  for  I  have  been 
compelled  to  supply  things  which  no  'com- 
pletely-furnished' house  should  be  without. 
You  may  sue,  if  you  please,  but  if  you  do 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.  1 33 

I'll  lampoon  you  on  the  stage  and  we  will 
see  who  gets  the  best  of  it."  This  threat  so 
calmed  the  ire  of  the  landlord  that  Foote 
was  never  troubled  with  a  "suit  for  dam- 
ages."' 

Skillful  as  Foote  was  in  "the  keen  en- 
counters of  his  wit"  he  was  sometimes  non- 
plused by  having  his  own  weapon  turned 
upon  himself.  He  once  had  a  law-suit  over 
a  three-year  lease  of  the  Edinburgh  Theatre, 
and  the  decision  being  against  him  the  Scot- 
tish agent  came  from  Edinburgh  with  a  bill 
of  costs  which  the  actor  had  to  pay,  remark- 
ing as  he  did  so  :  "Well,  now  you  have  your 
money,  I  presume  you  intend  to  return  to 
Edinburgh  and,  like  all  your  tight-fisted 
countrymen,  you'll  get  there  in  the  cheapest 
way  possible."  The  Scotchman  put  the  cash 
in  his  pocket  and,  tapping  upon  the  latter  in 
a  significant  way,  replied  :  "Aye,  aye,  mon ; 
I  shall  travel  on  Foote." 

After  his  hit  in  "The  Rehearsal"  Foote 
opened  the  New  Haymarket  Theatre  with 
his  "tea-drinking  entertainments."  These 
soon  became  the  rage  of  the  season  and  the 


134  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

tide  of  the  wag's  ill  luck  was  again  on  the 
ebb.  Quin,  of  course,  was  not  unaware 
of  his  success  and  in  speaking  of  it  said : 
"I  am  glad  of  it.  We  may  now  look  to 
see  the  poor  devil  with  a  clean  shirt  on." 
Such  a  remark  was  not  likely  to  go  to 
sleep,  especially  as  it  was  made  to  a 
friend  of  Foote's.  The  gentleman  went 
at  once  to  the  Bedford  where  he  found  the 
wag  and  told  him  of  it.  A  moment  later 
Quin  himself  entered  the  coffee-house.  "So, 
Jemmy,"  said  Foote,  "you  have  been  amus- 
ing my  friend  here  with  another  of  your 
jokes.  He  tells  me  that  you  said  I  should 
now  be  able  to  wear  clean  shirts.  How  dare 
you  take  such  a  liberty  as  that?" 

"Your  friend  has  made  a  mistake,"  re- 
plied Quin;  "I  didn't  say  shirts;  I  said  shirt. 
Do  you  suppose  I  could  be  so  ignorant  as  to 
use  the  plural  number?" 

Lord  Townshend  was  at  one  time  Lord 
Lieutenant  of  Ireland  and  Foote  attended 
one  of  his  levees.  Among  his  Excellency's 
suite  the  wag  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see 
a  person  whom  he  had  known  to  have  been 


SAMUEL  FOOTE. 


135 


one  of  the  Jeremy  Diddlers  of  London.  To 
satisfy  himself  that  he  was  not  mistaken  in 
his  surmise  he  asked  Lord  Townshend  the 
name  of  the  man.    "That,"  said  his  lordship, 

"is  Mr.  S ,  one  of  my  gentlemen  at  large. 

Don't  you  know  him?"  "Oh  yes,  I  know 
him,"  replied  Foote;  "but  what  your  Excel- 
lency tells  me  is  doubly  extraordinary;  first, 
that  he  is  a  gentleman;  and,  next,  that  he 
should  be  at  large/' 

The  actor  once  dined  with  a  party  of  mer- 
chant-tailors. The  dinner  passed  off  pleas- 
antly, and  he  sat  at  the  table  until  the 
knights  of  the  shears  began  to  thin  out  and 
more  than  half  of  them  had  left.  Then  he 
rose  and  took  his  leave  saying,  with  an  air 
of  seriousness :  "Gentlemen,  I  wish  you 
both  good-night."  "Both?"  echoed  one  of 
the  company;  "Why,  Foote,  that  last  bottle 
must  have  twisted  your  vision.  There  are 
a  dozen  or  more  of  us  left  yet."  "Oh,  yes," 
said  the  wag,  "I  know  that,  for  I  took  the 
trouble  to  count  you.  Eighteen  is  the  num- 
ber, and,  as  it  takes  nine  tailors  to  make  a 
man,  I  wish  you  both  good-night." 


136  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Foote  died  in  Dover  on  the  21st  of  Octo- 
ber, 1777,  and,  on  the  27th  of  that  month 
was  buried  by  torchhght  in  the  cloisters  of 
Westminster,  where  he  now  lies,  with  no  me- 
morial to  mark  his  resting  place — no  epitaph 
to  jog  the  world's  remembrance  of  his  vir- 
tues. Whatever  may  have  been  his  faults, 
or  vices,  as  his  enemies  were  pleased  to  call 
them,  he  was  not  the  consummate  rascal  that 
they  thought  him.  He  must  have  been  pos- 
sessed of  some  virtues,  or  he  never  could 
have  won  the  esteem  and  admiration  of  Dr. 
Johnson :  ''He  was  a  fine  fellow  in  his  way, 
and  the  world  is  really  impoverished  by  his 
sinking  glories ;"  so  thought  the  doctor,  and 
his  wise  old  head  knew  the  literary  wealth 
of  the  world  too  well  to  believe  that  it  could 
be  "really  impoverished"  by  the  "sinking 
glories"  of  a  scamp.  At  all  events,  the  name 
of  Foote  still  lives.  A  century-and-a-half 
has  elapsed  since  his  "glories"  were  in  full 
bloom,  and,  while  the  world  hesitates  to 
count  him  among  the  great  players  and  play- 
wrights of  the  past,  it  will  ever  remember 
him  as  the  chief  of  its  departed  wags. 


WILLIAM     WHEATLEY. 

From  the  collection  of  Charles  N.  Mann. 


William   Wheatley. 

And  an  Episode  of  Nicaraguan  Life. 

WHILE  he  lived,  the  Stage  knew  but 
few  better  actors  than  William 
Wheatley,  and  since  his  time  it  has  known 
but  few  so  good.  In  "juvenile"  parts  he  was 
always  acceptable,  but  "light  comedy"  was 
the  field  better  fitted  for  the  show  of  his 
ability.  In  such  characters  as  "Rover," 
"Young  Rapid."  "Bob  Handy"  in  Speed  the 
Plough,  "Mirabel"  in  the  Inconstant,  and  the 
"Copper  Captain"  in  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have 
a  Wife,  he  had  no  peer — with  the  possible 
exception  of  James  E.  Murdoch.  The  latter, 
however,  lacked  the  handsome  face  and 
graceful  form  of  Wheatley — potent  if  not 
essential  aids  to  the  light  comedian. 

I  became  acquainted  with  Wheatley  in 
1849.  He  was  then  a  member  of  the  Walnut 
Street  Theatre  Company  of  Philadelphia, 
under  the  management  of  E.  A.  Marshall. 


138  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 


Actors  of  that  time  were  not  paid  so  liberally 
for  their  services  as  are  those  of  to-day,  and 
Wheatley  had  to  be  content  with  his  twenty- 
five  dollars  per  week.  This  seems  a  paltry 
sum  when  we  consider  that  there  are  players 
now  of  no  more  merit  who  demand  their 
three-hundred  a  week,  and  get  it. 

Before  he  became  a  Philadelphian  he  was 
a  member  of  the  Old  Park  Theatre  Company 
of  New  York.  It  was  on  the  boards  of  this 
theatre  that  Dion  Boucicault's  comedy  of 
''London  Assurance"  was  first  produced  in 
America  and  with  a  remarkable  cast.  Harry 
Placide  was  the  Sir  Harcourt,  Peter  Rich- 
ings  the  Dazzle.  Charlotte  Cushman  the  Lady 
Gay  Spanker,  and  William  Wheatley  the 
Charles  Courtley.  ( Boucicault  has  the  cred- 
it of  being  the  author  of  "London  Assur- 
ance" ;  but  Brougham  was  his  collaborateur, 
and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that 
John's  brain  was  responsible  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  comedy's  humor  and  brilliancy.) 

Nowadays — when  every  actor  or  actress 
of  any  note  gathers  a  company  of  his  or 
her    own,    pitches    upon    a    play    and    stars 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  1 39 

the  country  with  it — 't  would  be  a  diffi- 
cult task  for  the  manager  of  any  thea- 
tre to  collect  an  array  of  talent  equal 
to  that  of  the  Old  Park.  But,  admitting 
the  possibility  of  gathering  such  a  company 
together,  and  that  the  manager's  exchequer 
were  broad  enough  to  straddle  the  expense, 
there  would  still  be  another  block  in  the  road 
of  his  success — I  mean,  if  he  confined  his 
company  to  the  old-time  comedies.  The 
taste  of  the  public  has  changed  and  old-time 
wit  no  longer  pleases  the  palate  of  the  play- 
goer. He  must  have  something  with  a 
stronger  spice  in  it;  something  dished  up  in 
the  style  of  the  ''Brass  Monkey"  or  the 
"Texas  Steer ;"  and  he'll  have  it,  or  turn  his 
back  on  the  theatre  that  won't  oblige  him 
and  seek  another  that  will.  However,  this  is 
a  subject  "to  be  handled  with  care."  There 
are  plenty  of  preachers  on  the  "Decadence  of 
the  Drama,"  but  their  text  is  not  well  taken. 
The  Decadence  of  the  Public  Taste  "would 
be  more  german  to  the  matter." 

Speaking  of  the  Old  Park,  here  is  an  in- 
teresting bit  of  something  that  happened  to 


I40  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Wheatley  while  he  was  a  member  of  its  com- 
pany. By  dint  of  economy  through  years  of 
his  stage  labor  he  had  saved  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand dollars  and  was  looking  about  him  for 
some  profitable  way  in  which  to  invest  it. 
Among  his  friends  was  one  who  professed  to 
have  the  knack  of  handling  the  ups-and- 
downs  of  the  stock  market  without  getting 
his  fingers  squeezed.  "Wheatley,"  he  said, 
"if  you  have  any  money  to  invest  I  can  give 
5''0u  a  Wall  Street  tip  by  which  you  can  quad- 
ruple your  capital  in  a  week."  This  was 
what  my  friend  was  looking  for,  but  he  was 
a  little  shy  of  the  method.  He  had  often 
heard  that  a  Wall  Street  operation  was  very 
like  the  operation  of  a  mouse  trap — easy  to 
enter  but  hard  to  get  out  of  alive. 

Still  he  had  confidence  in  his  friend  and 
asked  him  the  nature  of  the  "tip."  "Buy 
Harlem,"  was  the  reply,  "the  stock  is  selling 
to-day  at  $64  and  will  surely  reach  par,  and 
may  go  beyond,  before  the  week  is  out." 

The  temptation  was  too  strong  for  Wheat- 
ley  to  resist.  He  turned  his  money  over  to 
his  friend,  who  invested  it  in  200  shares  of 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  I4I 

Harlem  at  64,  buying  the  stock  on  a  margin. 
But  alas  the  stability  of  all  human  calcu- 
lations, especially  if  they  be  built  upon  a 
Wall  Street  foundation.  The  next  morning 
Harlem  rose  a  point,  then  dropped  two,  and 
continued  in  its  downward  track,  and  with 
such  toboggan  speed  that  in  forty-eight  hours 
the  stock  had  lost  fifteen  points,  leaving 
Wheatley  minus  his  $2000,  and  in  debt  for 
half  as  much  more. 

Now,  two  thousand  dollars  may  not  be  a 
very  big  fortune  to  lose,  but  when  it  happens 
to  be  all  that  a  man  has,  the  loser  needs  the 
aid  of  some  philosophy  to  reconcile  him  to 
his  loss.  And  Wheatley  had  a  good  deal  of 
the  needed  article.  "I  don't  have  to  go  far 
from  home,"  he  said,  "to  discover  the  truth 
of  the  old  proverb  about  the  'fool  and  his 
money' ;  nor  do  I  intend  to  cry  over  my  'spilt 
milk.'  "  Nor  did  he.  Never  afterwards  did  I 
hear  him  allude  to  the  matter  but  once;  it 
was  during  the  rehearsal  of  a  play  in  which 
he  had  to  "tag  the  piece" — that  is,  to  speak 
the  closing  line,  which  read : 

"I  ne'er  will  act  from  reckless  impulse  more." 


I  4.2  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

He  spoke  the  line  and  then,  with  a  muffled 
sigh,  added  one  of  his  own : 
"Nor  purchase  Harlem  stock  at  sixty- four !" 

In  speaking-  further  of  Wheatley  I  shall 
bring  in  a  year  of  his  life  in  the  wilds  of 
Nicaragua,  following  up  his  career  from 
the  time  he  left  the  stage — a  comparatively 
poor  man — until  he  returned  to  it  to  pick  up 
a  plethoric  fortune.  This  may  not  prove  un- 
interesting reading;  at  all  events  it  will  give 
me  the  opportunity  of  unearthing  some  of 
his  waggery. 

Our  acquaintance  began,  as  I  have  said, 
in  '49,  and  soon  ripened  into  mutual  friend- 
ship. It  was  about  this  time  that  the  actor 
became  disgusted  with  his  profession.  He 
had  labored  in  it  long  and  hard,  and  rather 
than  waste  more  of  his  years  and  energy 
upon  labor  so  unremunerative,  he  resolved  to 
leave  it.  This  resolution  he  followed  up  with 
a  farewell  benefit,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
performance  he  came  before  the  curtain, 
thanked  the  Philadelphians  for  their  gener- 
ous attendance  and  bade  the  stage  farewell 
forever. 


WILLIAM   VVHEATLEY.  I43 

\^''as  it  to  be  forever  ?  He  thought  so  then, 
but,  "there's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends" 
and  sometimes  shapes  them  without  waiting 
for  our  dictation  or  consent. 

After  the  benefit  he  went  to  New  York 
and  accepted  a  position  in  the  office  of  his 
brother-in-law,  E.  H.  Miller,  a  prominent 
Wall  Street  broker.  One  year  of  such  a  life 
was  quite  enough  for  Wheatley.  He  was 
entirelv  out  of  his  element,  and  more  dis- 
contented  than  a  fish  out  of  water. 

Miller  saw  his  discontent  and  said  to  him: 
"William,  it  is  very  plain  that  you  miss  the 
flare  of  the  footlights  and  have  no  relish  for 
the  society  of  bulls  and  bears.  All  this  is 
natural  enough,  but  I  have  something  now 
to  propose  which  may  be  more  to  your 
liking." 

•'Well,  go  on,  Ned ;  I  am  more  than  ready 
to  listen." 

"You  know,  I  presume,  that  I  am  a  heavy 
stockholder  in  the  Nicaragua  Transit  Com- 
pany?" 

"I  do— what  then?" 

"You  also  know  that  the  Pacific  end  of  the 


144  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Transit  route  connects  with  Commodore 
Vanderbilt's  steamers  that  run  to  San  Fran- 
cisco?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  my  proposition  is  this :  You  have 
some  little  money — enough,  I  think,  for  the 
purpose,  if  you  haven't  I  will  help  you  out — 
take  this,  go  down  to  Central  America,  buy 
or  rent  a  ranch  and  raise  cattle  for  the  pur- 
pose of  supplying  the  Vanderbilt  steamers 
with  beef.    What  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

There  was  novelty  in  the  propositon  and, 
spiced  as  it  was  with  the  promise  of  adven- 
ture, it  tickled  the  ennuied  spirits  of  Wheat- 
ley,  and  was  destined  to  change  the  current, 
not  only  of  the  comedian's  life,  but  of  my 
own. 

I  was  then  living  a  bachelor  in  Philadel- 
phia, with  rooms  on  Chestnut  Street,  oppo- 
site the  old  State  House.  On  entering  my 
room,  one  day,  I  found  the  lid  of  a  bandbox 
pushed  under  the  door  and,  scribbled  upon 
it,  I  read : 

"My  Dear  Joe: 

I  have  come  from  New  York  for  the  sole 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  I45 

purpose  of  seeing  you,  and  on  a  matter  of 
great  moment  to  both  of  us.  Meet  me  at 
the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre  to-night.  Don't 
fail.  You  will  find  me  in  the  lower  private 
box.  William  Wheatley.'" 

I  met  him  in  the  box,  and  he  began  at  once 
to  reveal  the  "matter  of  great  moment."  He 
told  me  the  burden  of  his  interview  with 
Miller,  and  that  he  had  determined  to  act 
upon  the  latter's  proposition.  "And  now," 
he  said,  "you  are  the  only  man  I  care  to  have 
as  a  partner,  and  if  you  can  raise  a  couple 
of  thousand  dollars,  your  fortune  is  made." 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  object  to  a  for- 
tune; it  is  a  convenient  thing  to  have.  But 
how  about  the  febrile  possibilities  of  a  Nica- 
raguan  climate?  Tropical  fevers  are  apt 
to  be  dangerously  rough  on  the  constitution 
of  a  Northern  man,  and  I  would  rather  miss 
a  fortune  than  tumble  into  my  grave  in  run- 
ning to  clutch  it." 

"Tumble  into  your  grave  ?  Nonsense,  my 
boy.  Have  you  ever  read  Squier's  'Notes  on 
Central  America'  ?  If  you  have  n't  I  can  as- 
sure you  that  Nicaragua  is  the  garden-spot 


146  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

— the  Paradise  of  the  world ;  which  it 
would  n't  be  if  its  denizens  were  in  the  habit 
of  tumbling  into  their  graves." 

He  then  went  into  a  long  and  fervid  de- 
scription of  the  country — its  perpetual  sum- 
mer, its  balmy  skies,  the  soft  breath  of  its 
atmosphere,  the  luxuriant  foliage,  the  never- 
ending  stretch  of  its  orange  groves,  and  va- 
rious other  adjuncts  that  aid  in  making  up 
the  bliss  of  a  Paradise. 

I  listened  to  all  of  it,  and  on  leaving  him 
said :  "Well,  William,  I  will  think  over  the 
matter  and  then  write  you  my  decision." 

"Very  good,  my  boy,  but  be  speedy  as  pos- 
sible, and  in  the  making  of  your  decision 
don't  forget  the  pregnant  words  of  Brutus: 

'There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune.'  " 

I  thought  the  matter  over,  and  the  result 
of  my  thinking  was  what  might  have  been 
expected.  I  was  young,  with  no  matrimonial 
nor  other  ties  to  shackle  me,  and  had  a  sharp 
appetite  for  adventure  (of  which,  by  the 
way,  I  was  soon  to  be  gratified  with  a 
stomach  ful.) 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  I47 

The  next  day  I  sold  enough  ground-rents 
to  realize  the  required  $2000,  and  then  wrote 
Wheatley  that  I  would  join  him  in  his  un- 
dertaking, and  that  he  might  expect  me  in 
New  York  the  following  day.  On  my  ar- 
rival he  greeted  me  cordially,  and  after  con- 
gratulating me  on  the  wisdom  of  my  de- 
cision, said :  *'I  have  secured  berths  for  us 
both  on  the  Daniel  Webster,  and  to-day 
week  we  will  be  on  our  way  to  carve  our 
fortunes  in  the  'land  of  orange  blossoms.'  " 

It  was  a  balmy  day  in  the  month  of  Oc- 
tober when  we  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Web- 
ster as  she  backed  lazily  out  of  her  dock  to 
plow  her  way  down  the  bay  and  out  through 
the  Narrows  into  the  broad  sea,  with  her 
black  nose  pointed  toward  the  Paradise  of 
the  World. 

The    Webster   was   a  side-wheeler,  and  I 

stood  a  little  abaft  one  of  her  wheelhouses, 

leaning  over  the  rail.     The  sea  was  rolling 

rather  heavily,  and  as  the  ship  rolled  with 

it  I  watched  with  some  interest  the  motion 

of  the  wheel.    When  the  steamer  would  take 

a  larboard  list  the  wheel  would  be  plunged 
II 


148  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

out  of  sight.  When  the  list  was  the  other 
way  it  would  bring  the  wheel  again  into 
view,  with  its  paddles  whirling  around  en- 
tirely clear  of  the  water. 

I  had  left  Wheatley  a  few  steps  away,  and 
now  turned  to  draw  his  attention  to  what 
had  so  interested  me.  He  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  and  again  I  leaned  over  the  rail. 
Being  in  the  very  prime  of  my  "salad  days," 
as  a  matter  of  course,  my  bosom  was  full 
of  poetry  and  sentiment,  and  nothing  is 
more  apt  to  stir  them  up  and  bring  them  out 
than  the  boundless  sea.  I  learned  all  this 
as  I  cast  my  eye  over  its  broad  expanse  to 
where  the  waters  met  and  kissed  the  em- 
bracing sky;  but  I  was  shortly  to  learn  a 
little  more. 

My  mind  was  wrapped  "in  reverie  pro- 
found." 

O,  what  ecstatic  joys  await  the  man 
Who  lives  his  life  upon  the  ocean's  span ; 
Grant  me  but  this,  O  Fortune !  then  no  more 
Of  thee  I'll  ask,  nor  waste  my  life  on — 

My  reverie  was  suddenly  choked  and  my 
poetry  cut  short  by  a  strange  down-side-up 


THE    AUTHOR,    IN    HIS    SALAD    DAYS. 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY. 


149 


sensation.  My  boots  seemed  to  have  a  de- 
sire to  crawl  up  over  my  head,  and  it  was 
painfully  evident  that  the  sea,  which  had  so 
stirred  up  and  brought  out  my  poetry  and 
sentiment,  was  now  stirring  up  and  about  to 
bring  out  everything  else  that  was  in  me. 
My  young  breast  had  suddenly  lost  its  love 
for  the  briny  deep.  More  liberal  than 
Shakspere's  Gonzalo,  who  offered  "a  thou- 
sand furlongs  of  sea  for  an  acre  of  barren 
ground,"  I  would  have  bartered  the  whole 
of  Neptune's  kingdom  for  a  bare  tubful  of 
well-balanced  earth. 

I  had  heard  a  little  and  read  a  great  deal 
about  wal-de-nicr,  and  the  quantity  of  mis- 
ery it  holds  to  fill  the  cup  of  mortals;  yet  I 
confidently  believed  it  would  never  pour  any 
of  it  into  mine.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is 
characteristic  of  him  who  dallies  with  the 
bosom  of  the  ocean  for  the  first  time  to  have 
the  same  belief  and  confidence  in  the  steadi- 
ness of  his  stomach.  He  is  a  lucky  man  if 
his  confidence  be  not  abused. 

But  to  return  to  my  own  case.  I  started 
for  my  stateroom  and  got  as  far  as  the  gang- 


1 50  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

way  that  led  into  the  saloon  below.  Stretch- 
ed between  the  doors  of  the  gangway  Avas  a 
cane  sofa,  and  on  one  end  of  it  I  saw  a  man 
seated,  with  his  head  leaning  upon  his  hand, 
and  apparently  asleep.  It  was  my  friend 
Wheatley.  A  deep  groan  told  me  that  he 
was  not  asleep,  although  his  eyes  were  shut. 

''Is  that  you,  Joe?  I  wish  you  would  be 
kind  enough  to  take  my  arm  and  help  me 
down  these  steps  and  into  my  berth.  It  is 
the  last  favor  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you.  I 
am  going  there  to  die !" 

Now,  it  is  no  easy  undertaking  for  a  sea- 
sick man  to  be  facetious,  yet  I  could  n't  help 
trying  it. 

"To  die?  Not  yet,  not  yet.  my  boy.  No 
man  can  do  that  till  his  time  comes,  and 
yours  has  n't  arrived.  I  know  you  are  on 
your  road  to  Paradise,  but  I  don't  think 
you  '11  have  to  die  to  get  there." 

He  made  no  reply — save  another  groan ; 
then,  rising  slowly  on  his  feet,  he  linked  his 
arm  in  mine,  and  we  tottered  down  the  gang- 
way steps  and  across  the  saloon  cabin  to  the 
door  of  our  stateroom. 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY. 


151 


Wheatley  crawled  into  his  berth  with  his 
clothes  on,  but  I  removed  mine — a  bit  of 
work  which  the  lurching  of  the  vessel  ren- 
dered somewhat  toilsome ;  nor  would  I  have 
done  it  could  I  have  foreseen  the  trouble  I 
was  to  have  in  getting  into  them  again. 
However,  that  was  a  task  I  had  n't  the 
courage  to  tackle  for  three  days — days  of 
superb  misery,  during  which  time  my  stom- 
ach's needs  were  as  modest  as  those  of  Gold- 
smith's Hermit;  it  wanted  "but  little  here 
below."  The  corner  of  a  soda  biscuit  would 
answer  for  a  meal;  indeed,  this  was  about 
all  it  would  hospitably  entertain,  and  some- 
times 't  would  be  uncivil  even  to  that,  and 
kick  it  out  as  an  intruder. 

My  friend's  attack  was  not  so  lasting. 
The  morning  after  it  he  was  out  of  the  state- 
room, and,  what  seemed  marvelous  to  me, 
with  a  stomach  steady  enough  to  allow  its 
owner  to  eat  his  breakfast  at  the  ship's  table. 

By  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  my  own 
stomach  had  ceased  its  topsy-turvy  tricks — 
possibly  for  want  of  capital  to  work  on — 
and  I  was  able  to  get  out  of  my  berth.     I 


152  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

thought  a  sniff  of  the  salt  air  might  exhila- 
rate me,  and  I  was  anxious  to  be  on  deck 
where  I  could  have  it.  But  that  was  out  of 
the  question,  unless  I  could  get  into  my 
trousers.  I  was  still  dizzy-headed,  and  the 
floor  of  the  stateroom,  tilted  three-fourths  of 
the  time  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees, 
was  not  a  promising  platform  for  a  dizzy 
head.  However,  by  dint  of  patience  and  the 
propping  of  my  body  against  the  side  of 
the  berth,  I  did  get  into  them,  and  resolved 
never  again  to  get  out  of  them  until  once 
more  underpinned  by  old  Mother  Earth.  The 
other  parts  of  my  toilet  were  comparatively 
easy. 

The  remaining  days  of  our  trip  were  not 
without  the  usual  monotony  of  sea  voyages, 
until  we  were  approaching  the  Nicaraguan 
coast.  Stretching  along  the  latter  and  over- 
hanging it  like  a  pall,  we  saw  a  dense  and 
sharply  defined  cloud,  and  in  a  short  half 
hour  we  had  left  the  bright  sunshine  behind 
us,  and  were  steaming  our  way  under  the 
downpour  of  a  tropical  rain  and  into  the 
harbor  of  San  Juan  del  Norte.     This,  how- 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  1 53 

ever,  is  no  longer  the  accepted  name  of  the 
town.  When  John  Bull  took  protectorate 
possession  of  the  Mosquito  coast  he  changed 
the  Spanish  name,  and  although  the  Cla3'ton- 
Bulwer  treaty  ended  his  protectorate  in  1850, 
it  has  n't  as  yet  squelched  his  chosen  one  of 
Greytown. 

There  is  nothing  very  picturesque,  or  in 
any  other  way  attractive,  about  the  town; 
at  least,  there  was  n't  fifty  years  ago,  and  I 
believe  the  lapse  of  the  half  century  has 
made  but  little  change  or  improvement.  It 
then  consisted  of  perhaps  forty  or  fifty 
houses,  a  few  of  which  were  frame  and  the 
remainder  built  of  cane  and  thatched  with 
either  palm  leave.",  or  grass,  and  sometimes 
with  "sacchate,"  the  native  name  for  corn- 
stalks. The  town  contained  about  three 
hundred  souls,  of  various  colors — black, 
brown,  red,  yellow  and  white.  The  site  it- 
self is  low  and  flat,  and  admirably  fitted  for 
the  raising  of  mosquitoes  and  the  breeding  of 
Calentura — a  pretty  name  for  the  ugliest 
fever  that  ever  boiled  the  blood  and  crazed 
the  brain  of  man. 


154  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

On  our  trip  we  had  made  the  friendship 
of  Captain  Baldwin  of  the  Webster,  who 
now  gave  iis  this  pithy  advice :  "Gentlemen, 
it  may  be  three  or  four  days,  perhaps  a  week, 
before  the  river  steamer  will  be  down  to 
take  you  on  5'our  way.  In  the  meantime  you 
may,  if  you  choose,  remain  with  me  aboard 
ship.  If  you  take  up  your  quarters  in  Grey- 
town  one  night's  sleep  in  that  place  might 
saddle  you  with  a  fever,  which,  perhaps, 
would  take  you  a  month  to  get  rid  of — if 
you  got  rid  of  it  at  all." 

We  thanked  him  for  his  advice,  and  also 
for  his  invitation,  which  we  accepted,  cling- 
ing closely  to  the  ship,  and  contenting  our- 
selves with  the  distant  view  of  a  town  that 
bore  such  an  unwholesome  reputation.  We 
thought  it  was  one  of  those  cases  where  "dis- 
tance lends  enchantment  to  the  view,"  and 
that  Campbell  might  have  had  such  a  spot 
in  his  mind's  eye  when  he  penned  that  much- 
bequoted  line. 

Curiosity,  however,  is  a  pugnacious  imp. 
It  has  battled  with  discretion  ever  since  the 
world  began,  and  it  got  so  much  the  better 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  I  55 

of  mine  that  I  ventured  ashore  to  take  an 
inside  view  of  the  place.  I  saw  the  main 
street  thickly  sprinkled  with  the  Webster's 
passengers,  and  among  them  were  a  few  of 
the  residents.  Two  tell-tale  tokens  enabled 
me  to  distinguish  them — the  faces  of  the 
Greytowners  were  saffron-colored,  and  their 
clothes  did  n't  fit  them.  The  latter  token, 
however,  puzzled  me.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  town  had  no  "Knight  of  the  Goose,"  or 
none  that  knew  his  business?  Maybe  so; 
anyhow,  I  would  soon  find  out. 

On  the  side  of  a  miserably  muddy  street, 
and  facing  the  harbor,  stood  a  one-story 
shanty,  with  a  big  sign  on  its  front,  read- 
ing: "St.  Charles  Hotel."  Crossing  over, 
I  entered  a  narrow  door  and  found  myself 
in  the  bar-room.  Behind  the  bar  stood  a 
man  whom  I  judged  to  be  the  host  himself. 
He  had  fishy  eyes,  and  an  unhealthy-looking 
complexion,  from  which  all  flesh-color  had 
vanished  and  given  place  to  a  strong  tint  of 
gamboge.  He  was  a  Northern  man,  and  his 
idiomatic  expressions  led  me  to  believe  that 
he  had  been  born  and  brought  up  among  the 


156  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

wooden  nutmegs.  Yet  my  belief  was  en- 
veloped in  doubt.  How  was  it  possible,  I 
thought,  for  a  shrewd-brained  Yankee  to 
leave  a  comfortable  home,  if  he  had  one,  and 
risk  his  health  and  life  in  a  place  like  Grey- 
town  ?  While  I  was  trying  to  solve  the  ques- 
tion he  snapped  my  thread  of  thought  with 
another:  '* What '11  you  have,  stranger?" 
"A  glass  of  soda,  if  you  please." 
He  emptied  a  bottle  of  the  "soft  stuff"  into 
a  glass  and  I  threw  down  a  silver  dollar  in 
payment.  After  picking  up  the  coin  and 
ringing  it  three  or  four  times  on  the  bar,  he 
tossed  it  into  his  till,  and  handed  me  in 
change  three  Canadian  twenty-cent  pieces. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  forty  cents  for  a  glass 
of  soda  was  a  rather  stiff  price,  but  I  was 
yet  to  know  that  swindling  was  one  of  the 
customs  of  the  country,  and  also  to  know  that 
I  must  learn  to  do  a  little  of  it  myself,  or 
give  up  all  hope  of  a  fortune  in  the  land  of 
orange  blossoms.  However,  swindling  is  an 
art  not  taught  at  a  mother's  knee,  and  I  still 
had  a  glimmering  recollection  of  the  sacred 
school. 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  1 57 

And  now  remembering  the  purpose  for 
which  I  entered  his  place,  I  asked : 

"Have  you  any  tailors  in  Grey  town?" 

"Only  one,"  he  replied. 

"Only  one?  Well,  what 's  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?  Nuthin. 
Why  d'ye  ask  me  a  queer  question  like  that  ?" 

"Because  he  don't  know  his  business. 
The  clothes  of  the  Greytowners  don't  fit 
them." 

He  was  wiping  the  top  of  the  bar  with  a 
very  dirty  cloth,  but  stopped  his  work  and, 
giving  me  a  quizzical  look  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  mackerel  eye,  replied : 

"I  reckon  you  're  a  stranger  in  these 
parts?" 

"Yes." 

"One  of  the  Webster's  passengers?" 

"Yes." 

"So  I  reckoned.  Well,  stranger,  if  you 
stop  long  in  these  diggins  I  reckon  your 
clothes  won't  fit  you,  nuther." 

"I  think  I  understand  you.  You  mean  that 
the  Calentura  will  alter  their  shape?" 


158  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  nuthin  o'  the  sort, 
stranger ;  I  mean  that  it  '11  alter  yourn,  if  you 
give  it  a  chance.  The  Calentury  is  powerful 
cute,  and  when  it  gits  among  a  crowd,  it  '11 
pick  out  a  stranger  quicker  'n  lightnin',  and 
shake  the  meat  off  his  bones  as  clean  as  a 
whis'l.     And  it  won't  take  it  long,  nuther." 

"But  a  man  can  become  acclimatized,  can 
he  not?" 

"Climatized?  Yes,  I  reckon  he  kin — if 
he  lives  long  enough.  But  strangers  don't 
have  time  to  do  that  down  here.  When  the 
Calentury  gets  a  good  hold  on  'em  they  pass 
in  their  chips  before  they  have  a  chance  to  do 
any  climatizing." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  cheerful  informa- 
tion, and,  being  in  no  hurry  to  "pass  in  my 
chips,"  hastened  aboard  the  Webster  as  if 
the  Calentura  were  already  at  my  heels  and 
reaching  to  "shake  the  meat  off  my  bones." 

Captain  Baldwin  was  right  in  surmising 
that  we  would  be  delayed  in  our  wait  for  the 
river  steamer.  On  the  morning  of  our  fifth 
day  in  the  harbor  we  heard  her  high-pressure 
snort,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  crept  out  of 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  I  59 

one  of  the  mouths  of  the  San  Juan,  and 
puffed  slowly  up  to  the  side  of  the  Webster. 

We  were  not  altogether  pleased  with  her 
looks.  Our  journey  up  the  river  was  sure 
to  last  some  days,  and  as  we  were  told  that 
it  rains  on  that  stream  twenty-three  hours 
out  of  every  twenty-four,  we  had  a  right  to 
expect  that  the  Transit  Company  would 
provide  a  steamer  that  would  promise  to  keep 
its  passengers  reasonably  dry.  The  boat  we 
were  looking  at  promised  nothing  of  the  sort. 
She  was  a  flat-bottomed  craft  with  a  paddle- 
wheel  behind,  and  no  possible  place  for  the 
accommodation  of  passengers,  except  an 
upper  deck,  swung  with  a  multitude  of  wet 
hammocks,  and  covered  with  an  awning. 
The  latter  was  old  and  drilled  with  holes  by 
mildew — holes  as  big  as  marbles,  through 
which  the  rain  was  now  running  in  streams 
upon  the  hammocks  beneath. 

I  noticed  Wheatley's  face  lengthen,  as  he 

remarked:     "Well,    the    Transit  Company 

must  have  a  cheek  of  adamant  if  it  expects 

a  man  to  risk  his  precious  health  in  a  damp 

tub   like   that."      (I   am   not   so   sure  that 


l6o  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"damp"  was  the  adjective  he  used.  It  had 
the  sound,  but  it  may  have  been  one  more 
emphatic. ) 

The  passengers,  who  had  been  waiting  in 
Grevtown  for  the  boat's  arrival,  were  now 
being  conveyed  from  the  shore  in  scows, 
and  the  deck  of  the  httle  steamer  was  soon 
crowded.  Captain  Baldwin  advised  us  to 
wait  for  the  other  boat,  which  was  soon  to 
follow,  and  we  did  so,  with  the  hope  that  it 
might  promise  us  more  comfort.  But  vain 
the  iiope.  The  boats  were  as  like  as  two 
peas,  with  no  visible  difference,  save  that 
the  awning  over  the  second  one  had  a  more 
unwholesome  look.  (Perhaps  "more  hole- 
some"  would  have  better  explained  why  the 
hammocks  were  wetter.) 

Still  there  was  one  consolation  left  us — 
with  the  exception  of  the  crew,  we  would 
have  nearly  the  sole  possession  of  the  boat. 

We  got  aboard  with  our  luggage,  bade 
Baldwin  a  friendly  good-bye,  and  then, 
with  a  wheezy  snort,  the  little  steamer  back- 
ed off  from  the  side  of  the  Webster  and, 
turning  about,  paddled  her  way  around  Al- 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  l6l 

ligator  Point  and  pushed  her  slow  snout  into 
one  of  the  mouths  of  the  San  Juan.  I  judged 
her  normal  speed  to  be  about  that  of  an  old- 
time  canal  boat — say,  five  miles  an  hour — ■ 
but,  as  she  would  have  to  struggle  against 
the  current  of  the  river,  the  average  speed 
of  which  is  within  a  mile  as  much,  it  took  but 
little  figuring  to  tell  us  that  our  river  trip 
of  one  hundred  and  nineteen  miles  would 
consume  an  equal  number  of  hours — suppos- 
ing there  would  be  no  detention  on  the  way 
to  add  to  the  number.  This  supposition, 
however,  proved  to  be  a  little  too  airy. 

Our  experience  on  the  San  Juan,  and  that 
of  a  year's  residence  in  Nicaragua,  will 
give  the  reader  a  fair  idea  of  the  many  de- 
lights and  not-a-few  miseries  a  Northern 
man  may  expect  if  he  has  a  fad  for  naviga- 
ting tropical  rivers,  or  a  fancy  for  an  equa- 
torial home.  To  me  the  delights  were  ques- 
tionable, and  in  the  scales  of  my  comfort 
were  far  outweighed  by  the  miseries.  Even 
the  enthusiasm  of  my  friend  Wheatley  un- 
derwent a  magical  change,  and  long  before 
the  year  had  expired  he  had  ceased  to  talk 


l62  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

about  orange  groves.  His  eye  had  become 
so  tired  of  their  beauty,  and  his  palate  so 
surfeited  with  their  fruit  that,  at  dinner  one 
day,  he  told  me  he  was  willing  to  barter  all 
the  gastronomic  delicacies,  as  well  as  the 
other  pleasures  of  his  Paradise,  for  a  single 
slice  of  a  Jersey  watermelon,  or  a  sniff  at  a 
peck  of  her  peaches. 

But  I  am  getting  ahead  of  my  story,  and 
will  go  back  a  little  to  give  the  reader  a 
short  description  of  the  San  Juan,  mingling 
it  with  a  few  incidents  that  overtook  us  be- 
fore we  reached  our  destination,  which  was 
still  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  miles  away. 

The  San  Juan  with  its  windings  is  one 
hundred  and  nineteen  miles  long,  and  its  fall 
from  Lake  Nicaragua  about  one  hundred 
and  ten  feet.  Each  side  of  the  river,  for  a 
distance  of  twenty  miles  up  from  Greytown. 
is  lined  with  foliage  that  reaches  up  from 
the  water's  edge  to  form  a  wall  of  green, 
impenetrable  to  the  eye,  and  apparently  to 
anything  else.  Between  these  the  river  runs, 
twisting  its  course  in  every  direction  of  the 
compass,  and  boxing  the  thirty-two  points 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  163 

with  the  rapidity  of  an  old  salt.  Day  and 
night  the  clouds  hang  over  it,  pouring  out 
their  contents  with  little,  if  any.  intermis- 
sion. 

Our  first  night  on  the  river  T  shall  never 
forget.  The  mosquitoes,  possibly  fearing 
that  I  might,  bored  the  recollection  into  me, 
and  raised  a  lump  as  big  as  a  hen's  egg  at 
every  bore.  The  San  Juan  mosquito  is  sui 
generis.  He  is  three  times  the  size  of  our 
Jersey  breed,  three  times  as  multitudinous, 
and  more  than  three  times  as  hungry.  He 
is  full  of  diplomacy  and  caution,  as  well  as 
agility.  He  never  sings  to  let  you  know  he  's 
coming,  and  if  he  be  interrupted  in  his  meal 
by  one  of  your  smacks  he  will  dodge  it  with 
the  skill  of  a  prize-fighter,  and  then  get  in 
his  work  on  a  fresh  spot.  As  a  dodger  he 
is  probably  the  most  accomplished  of  all  the 
Cnlex  tribe.  It  is  n't  strange,  then,  that, 
with  his  aid  and  that  of  the  rain  and  the 
hole-drilled  awning,  I  should  recollect  my 
first  night  on  the  San  Juan.  'T  would  be 
strange,  indeed,  should  I  forget  it. 

The  day  broke  with  the  rain  still  falling 
12 


164  *VAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

in  torrents.  1  asked  Wheatley,  who  was  sit- 
ting up  in  his  hammock  with  an  umbrella 
over  his  head :  "Does  Squiers  in  describ- 
ing your  Paradise  tell  you  that  the  sun  never 
shines  upon  it?" 

"Have  a  little  patience,  my  boy;  the  sun 
will  shine  bright  enough  before  we  reach 
our  destination," 

"And  hot  enough,  I  suppose — Hello! 
there  's  one  of  the  Saurian  residents  of  our 
Eden !"  and  T  pointed  to  an  eight-foot  alli- 
gator that  waddled  quickly  down  the  river's 
bank  and  then  plunged  into  the  water. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him.  Do  you  know,  Joe,  that 
these  creatures  have  more  sense  and  pru- 
dence than  some  of  the  human  species?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  it.  When  did  you  find 
that  out?" 

"Only  a  moment  ago.  Did  n't  you  notice 
what  haste  that  big  fellow  made  to  reach 
the  river  and  get  in  out  of  the  wet?  There 
are  some  two-legged  creatures  that  don't 
know  enough  to  do  that." 

"So  I  have  heard.  Would  you  now  sug- 
gest that  we  follow  his  example?" 


WILLIAM  WHEATLEY.  165 

"I  would  gladly  jump  overboard,  my  boy, 
if  I  were  sure  the  mosquitoes  would  n't  jump 
after  me.  Confound  the  pests !  I  never  slept 
a  wink  all  night,  while  you  were  snoozing  and 
snoring  away  in  your  soaked  hammock  as 
happily  as  if  you  were  in  your  comfortable 
bed  at  home." 

My  friend  was  mistaken.  If  I  did  drop 
into  an  occasional  doze,  't  was  only  to  dream 
of  my  "comfortable  bed  at  home,"  and  then 
to  wake  and  wonder  how  I  ever  could  have 
been  the  jackass  to  leave  it. 

The  little  steamer  was  now  puffing  her 
slow  and  tortuous  way  up  the  river.  On  each 
side  of  her  the  dense  foliage  stretched  its 
interminable    length,    alive  with  chattering 
monkeys  and  screeching  parrots,  and  draped 
with    trailing    vines    that  hung  festooned, 
drabbling  their  ends  in  the  rush  of  the  cur- 
rent below.     To  the  Northern  man  such  a 
scene  is  full  of  novelty,  and,  if  the  rain  could 
be  forgotten,  abundance  of  beauty.     But  the 
novelty  soon  wears  off;  and  the  beauty — 
well,  there  may  be  too  much  of  every  good 
as  well  as  beautiful  thing.     No  man  wants 


1 66  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

his  eye  forever  filled  with  the  green  of  foli- 
age, nor  his  ear  with  the  screech  of  parrots 
and  the  chatter  of  monkeys.  Eye  and  ear 
alike  soon  grow  weary  of  monotony,  and 
nowhere  on  earth  can  they  find  more  of  it 
than  on  the  San  Juan  River. 

After  passing  through  the  Machuca 
Rapids,  and  two  more  days  of  rain  and  as 
many  nights  of  mosquito  misery,  we  reach- 
ed a  landing  a  little  way  below  the  Castillo 
Rapids.  These  are  thirty-seven  miles  from 
the  lake,  and  rush  over  the  ledges  of  rock 
with  a  fall  of  eight  feet  in  about  thirty. 
They  are  much  too  formidable  for  a  steamer 
to  climb ;  therefore  the  passengers  with  their 
baggage  were  transferred  around  them  to 
another  steamer,  the  "Director,"  which  lay 
waiting  for  them  at  a  landing  above,  and  on 
which  they  were  to  be  carried  up  the  river  to 
the  lake. 

We  were  detained  at  the  Castillo  for  some 
hours  and,  if  the  weather  had  permitted, 
would  have  visited  the  "Castillo  Viejo" — 
an  ancient  fort  or  castle  from  which  the 
Rapids  take  their  name.     The  gray  walls  of 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY.  1 67 

the  fort  frown  dismally  down  from  their 
perch  on  a  hill,  the  sides  of  which  reach 
nearly  to  the  river's  edge,  and  are  covered 
with  a  rank  growth  of  verdure,  matted  and 
tangled  together  with  tropical  vines. 

It  was  during  our  detention  at  the  Cas- 
tillo that  we  encountered  another  interesting 
resident  of  the  world's  Paradise,  and  one 
that  is  worthy  of  mention — the  "jigger." 
The  natives  have  another  name,  or  rather 
two  names,  for  it,  the  "Nigua"  and  the 
"Chigo."  As  I  have  said,  it  first  made  our 
acquaintance  at  the  Rapids,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  introduction.  It  has  a  habit 
of  introducing  itself,  and  does  it  through 
the  leather  of  one's  boots;  but  how  it  gets 
through,  no  one  as  yet  has  been  able  to  find 
out.  It  is  insignificant  in  size,  a  mere  speck 
to  the  naked  eye,  but  not  so  insignificant  in 
its  operations.  As  soon  as  it  comes  in  con- 
tact with  the  foot  it  begins  to  bore  into  the 
ball  of  it,  or  under  the  toe-nails,  its  appe- 
tite having  a  seeming  preference  for  the  big- 
toe.  There  is  nothing  painful  in  the  opera- 
tion of  its  boring;  it  does  it  so  gently  that 


1 68  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  victim  is  unconscious  of  its  presence 
until  it  has  finished  its  contemplated  home, 
and  laid  in  it  a  sack  of  eggs — the  sack  be- 
ing about  the  size  of  a  small  pea.  It  is  now 
high  time  for  the  victim  to  wake  up  and  stir 
himself.  Unless  the  sack  is  taken  out  at 
once,  the  eggs  will  hatch  and  he  is  likely  to 
have  a  sorry  foot;  so  sorry,  indeed,  that  he 
may  have  to  part  with  that  portion  of  his 
anatomy,  or  else  with  his  life. 

The  natives  are  very  expert  at  discover- 
ing and  removing  the  little  sack,  which  they 
do  by  clipping  the  flesh  from  above  it  with 
a  sharp  knife,  and  then  lifting  it  out  with 
the  point  of  a  needle.  They  charge  a  half- 
dime  for  their  surgical  services;  a  modest 
fee,  and  neither  Wheatley  nor  myself  be- 
grudged it  to  the  Greaser  who  so  deftly  and 
so  quickly  freed  our  foot  from  the  danger- 
ous little  insect. 

Thenceforth  and  during  our  entire  year's 
stay  in  Nicaragua,  our  "jigger"  watchful- 
ness never  flagged,  for  there  was  not  a  day 
that  our  i:)edals  were  not  turned  bottom-up 
for  the  scrutiny  of  a  sharp-eyed  native. 


WILLIAM  WHEATLEY.  169 

There  is  a  diversity  of  opinion  regarding 
the  origin  of  the  Castillo  Rapids.  Some 
authorities  maintain  that  they  are  a  natural 
obstruction  to  the  channel,  while  others 
claim  they  are  artificial,  their  many  rocks 
having  been  placed  in  the  river  by  the  orig- 
inal natives  to  prevent  marauders  from 
getting  any  further  into  "the  bowels  of  their 
land."  They  are  situated  at  a  bend  of  the 
San  Juan,  and,  from  the  fort  above,  an  un- 
interrupted view  of  the  river  can  be  had  be- 
fore it  reaches  the  Rapids  and  after  it  leaves 
them. 

Our  delay  at  the  place  was  tedious,  but 
the  end  of  it  came  at  last,  to  find  us  aboard 
the  "Director,"  and  once  more  on  our  way 
up  the  river.  A  few  miles  above  the  Cas- 
tillo there  are  other  rapids  called  the  "Toro." 
These,  however,  are  easy  to  navigate — so 
easy,  indeed,  that  we  would  have  been  igno- 
rant 01  their  existence  if  the  captain  of  the 
"Director"  had  not  enlightened  us. 

The  river  now  began  to  widen,  and  the 
foliage  at  either  side  to  lose  enough  of  its 
density  to  give  us  a  glimpse  at  the  country 


170  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

beyond.  Miles  of  swamp  were  there — the 
home  of  Malaria  and  Death  that  hovered 
over  it  waiting  patiently  for  the  white  man 
reckless  enough  to  come  within  reach  of 
their  clutches. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  we  ar- 
rived at  San  Carlos.  This  is  a  place  of 
twenty  or  thirty  cane  huts,  and  two  or  three 
habitations  of  more  pretension.  It  is  situ- 
ated on  the  borders  of  Lake  Nicaragua,  at 
the  point  where  the  river  leaves  it  to  start 
on  its  way  to  the  Atlantic.  After  a  little 
more  of  the  delay  characteristic  of  the  coun- 
try, we  were  transferred  to  the  deck  of  the 
"Central  America,"  a  steamer  180  feet  long, 
and  commodious  and  swift  in  comparison 
with  the  other  two  in  which  we  had  been 
traveling.  She  was  a  new  boat,  built  by 
Commodore  Vanderbilt  in  New  York  in 
seven  weeks,  and  towed  to  Nicaragua  by 
the  Daniel  Webster  a  short  time  before  our 
trip.  The  Commodore  himself  came  with 
her  for  the  purpose  of  superintending  the 
work  of  getting  her  over  the  Castillo  Rapids 
— a  task  which  his  engineers  had  told  him 


WILLIAM  WHEATLEY  I7I 

was  impossible  to  accomplish.  But  the 
Commodore  was  used  to  battHng  with  im- 
possibilities. He  was  not  the  man  to  shrink 
from  carrying  out  his  ends,  however  imprac- 
ticable they  might  appear  to  other  people. 
With  the  aid  of  ropes  and  windlasses  the 
steamer  was  pulled  over  the  rapids,  but  not 
without  having  a  hole  staved  through  her 
bottom.  This,  however,  was  soon  remedied, 
and  in  a  few  days  she  was  ready  for  her  lake 
traffic. 

Ceuiral  American  travelers,  when  tliey 
speak  of  Lake  Nicaragua,  are  loud  in 
their  praises  of  its  beauty,  and  sometimes  at 
a  loss  for  adjectives  to  do  it  justice.  One 
of  them  ecstatically  declares :  "Lake  Nica- 
ragua is  the  queen — the  beautiful  queen  of 
all  the  earth's  lakes;  and  a  man  might  well 
afford  a  trip  around  the  world  for  the  sake 
of  a  sail  on  her  bosom." 

Well,  we  were  now  on  her  bosom,  with  her 
emerald  arms  around  us,  and  the  dome  of  a 
tropical  sky  above  our  head  and  mirrored 
in  the  sheen  beneath.  Beauty,  indeed,  and 
plenty  of  it.     The  sun,   that  had  so  long 


1/2  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

hidden  his  face  from  us,  had  swept  the 
clouds  from  his  path.  His  day's  journey 
was  nearly  at  an  end,  and  he  was  now  reach- 
ing for  his  couch  of  crimson  and  gold  to 
"turn  in"  for  the  night.  One  lingering  look 
— a  good-night  kiss,  as  it  were — he  threw 
upon  the  lake's  fair  breast,  then  dropped 
upon  his  pillow.  And  now  the  gorgeous 
hues  of  heaven  changed.  Robbed  of  his 
pencil's  touch,  their  royal  purple  paled  to 
pink,  then  faint  and  fainter  grew  to  vanish 
in  the  sober  gray  of  eve.  Timidly  the  stars 
began  to  peep,  first,  one  by  one,  then  boldly 
by  the  hundreds,  till  the  whole  firmament, 
from  zenith  to  horizon,  was  lighted  with 
the  celestial  lamps,  all  blazing  with  a  lustre 
quite  unnatural  and  unknown  to  him  who 
lives  beneath  a  Northern  sky. 

Yet,  novel  and  beautiful  as  the  sight  was, 
our  ability  to  appreciate  it  was  sadly  weak- 
ened by  our  river  experience.  The  lack  of 
sleep  was  prosy  enough  to  smother  all  of 
our  romanticism,  and  until  we  could  swal- 
low a  dose  or  two  of  Nature's  "sweet  re- 
storer" we  were  in  no  humor  to  yield  to  the 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 73 

fascination  of  her  "queen  of  lakes,"  or  spend 
our  ecstasies  on  the  beauty  of  her  stars. 

However,  it  is  said  that  everything  comes 
to  him  who  has  the  patience  to  wait  for  it. 
We  had  left  the  mosquitoes  behind  us,  and 
before  us  we  saw  the  prospect  of  an  undis- 
turbed sleep ;  therefore,  turning  our  back 
upon  the  glittering  stars,  we  tumbled  into 
our  berths,  while  the  plash  of  the  steamer's 
paddles  and  the  throb  of  her  engine  kept  up 
a  lullaby  that  hushed  the  recollection  of  our 
troubles  and  soothed  us  into  forgetfulness. 

\Mien  we  awoke  the  sun  was  up  and  the 
steamer  at  anchor.  She  lay  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  shore  and  in  front  of 
our  destined  home — Virgin  Bay,  or  "La 
Veerhin,"  as  it  is  euphoniously  pronounced 
by  the  natives.  There  was  no  wharf  at 
which  the  steamer  could  land,  and  the  lake 
being  too  shoal  to  allow  her  nearer  approach 
we  were  taken  ashore  in  a  scow. 

Our  first  glimpse  at  Paradise  was  not  en- 
trancing. Near  the  water's  edge  stood  the 
Transit  Company's  office — a  one-storied, 
tile-roofed  structure,  and  the  only  one  that 


174  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

could  boast  of  that  kind  of  covering.  The 
others  were  thatched  huts  and  canvas  tents. 
There  were  about  twenty  of  the  former,  the 
homes  of  half-naked  and  dirty-looking 
Greasers,  where  they  spend  their  days  in 
eking  out  a  something  "that  bears  the  name 
of  Life."  The  tents,  of  which  there  were 
five  or  six,  all  wore  upon  their  front  a  hotel 
sign ;  and  to  these  unpromising  hostelries 
the  passengers  were  to  look  for  their  enter- 
tainment, or  go  without. 

We  spent  the  morning  in  the  office  of  the 
company,  whose  agent,  a  Mr.  Doyle,  Wheat- 
ley  had  known  in  New  York.  At  noon  I 
suggested  that  we  take  a  stroll,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  looking  around  us  to  see  what  the 
prospect  was  for  entering  upon  our  cattle 
enterprise. 

The  day  was  clear.  Not  a  cloud  in  all  the 
sky  hindered  the  noonday  sun  while  he  shot 
his  fierce  rays  perpendicularly  down  upon 
our  straw  hats  and  cast  their  circular 
shadows  around  our  feet.  One  look  at  my 
friend's  face  was  quite  enough  to  convince 
me  that  his  high  opinion  of  Paradise  and 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  175 

faith  in  cattle  enterprises  were  on  the  wane. 
"Well,  William,"  I  said,  "here  we  are  in 
your  land  of  orange  blossoms;  and  now 
we  're  here,  how  do  you  intend  to  carve  out 
that  fortune  of  ours  ?  Is  your  cattle  scheme 
to  be  the  carving  knife?" 

A  shade  of  disappointment  darkened  hi? 
handsome  face. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  replied,  "I  am  not 
easily  discouraged,  and  always  look  at  the 
bright  side  of  a  thing,  if  it  has  one.     But, 
from  what  T  have  seen  of  the  country,  from 
the  time  we  landed  at  Greytown  until  we 
reached  this  outskirt  of  civilization,  I  don't 
think  Miller's  scheme  has  a  bright  side — un- 
less   its    utopianism    can  be  called  bright. 
Where  are  the  cattle  to  come  from?    And  if 
we  had  them,  what  is  there  here  upon  which 
to  feed  and  fatten  them?    There  are  plenty 
of  trees  and  a  plenty  of  foliage,  but  I  have 
yet  to  see  the  first  blade  of  anything  that 
looks  like  grass." 

I  quite  agreed  with  him  on  the  imprac- 
ticability of  the  scheme,  and  told  him  so. 
"But,"  I  said,  "if  you  give  it  up  what  do 


176  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

you  purpose  doing  ?    Would  you  go  back  to 
the  States?" 

"To  be  laughed  at?  No.  We  must 
cudgel  our  brain  and  stir  up  something  else 
—Hello!    What's  this?" 

On  one  side  of  the  road  stood  a  large  tent, 
about  twenty  feet  wide  and  a  hundred  or 
more  in  depth.  It  was  the  sign  on  the  front 
that  caught  Wheatley's  eye  and  drew  forth 
his  exclamation.  The  letters,  which  were  a 
foot  long,  had  been  cut  from  red  flannel  and 
sewed  on  to  tell  the  passer-by  that  the  im- 
posing edifice  he  was  looking  at  was  the 
"American  Hotel." 

The  tent  was  divided  into  two  parts,  the 
front  one  being  a  bar-room  which  was  now 
crowded  with  the  passengers  that  had  land- 
ed in  the  morning  from  the  Webster. 

VVheatley  looked  in  the  door  a  moment, 
and  then  said  to  me :  "Suppose  we  go  in 
and  have  a  chat  with  this  landlord.  He 
seems  to  be  doing  a  thriving  business." 

We  entered,  but  the  fellow  was  so  busy 
behind  the  bar  that  we  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  thirst  of  his  customers.     A  half  hour 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  I77 

passed,  then  the  lull  came,  and  we  walked 
over  to  the  bar,  ordering  "lemonade  for 
two."  Wheatley  then  began  to  question  the 
host: 

"Do  you  often  have  such  a  crowd  as  this 
on  your  hands?" 

"Always  on  steamer  days,  and  very  often 
a  much  bigger  crowd — so  big  that  we  can't 
accommodate  them." 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  busi- 
ness ?" 

"About  three  months ;  but  I  am  going  to 
give  it  up." 

"Give  it  up  ?  What  for  ?  Does  n't  it  pay 
you?" 

"Yes,  it  pays  well  enough.  But — "  here 
he  pointed  to  a  very  sick-looking  man  lying 
in  a  hammock  at  the  side  of  the  tent — "my 
partner  there  is  down  with  the  Calentura, 
and  thinks  he  will  die  if  he  stays  here.  So 
I'm  going  to  sell  out  and  take  him  back  tc 
the  States." 

Wheatley  stopped  his  questioning,  and. 
taking  me  aside,  said  :  "I  have  it,  Joe !  Sup- 
pose we  go  into  the  hotel  business?" 


178  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

I  was  taken  a  little  aback  at  the  idea  of  a 
light  comedian  running  a  hotel  in  such  a 
country,  and  replied :  "You  're  not  seri- 
ous?" 

"Never  in  my  life  more  so,  my  boy.  We  '11 
have  another  talk  with  this  fellow  to  find  out 
what  he  wants  for  his  hotel,  and  if  he  is  not 
too  extravagant  in  his  ideas,  we  will  close 
with  him  at  once." 

Then,  turning  to  the  landlord,  he  said : 

"You  want  to  sell  out?" 

"Yes,  and  I  '11  sell  at  a  sacrifice." 

"What  do  you  call  'a  sacrifice'  ?" 

"Twenty-two  hundred  dollars  for  the 
tent,  good-will,  stock  and  fixtures." 

"And  the  ground  on  which  the  tent 
stands?     I  suppose  that  is  included." 

"No.  We  hold  the  ground  on  a  yearly 
lease  of  sixty  dollars,  payable  monthly." 

After  some  consultation  we  told  him  to 
make  out  an  inventory  of  his  stock  and 
fixtures,  and  we  would  give  him  an  answer 
in  the  morning. 

It  being  now  dinner  time  we  asked  him  if 
he    could    accommodate  us  with  the  meal. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 79 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "walk  right  back.  Din- 
ner will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  rear  apartment  of  his  tent  was  hung 
at  the  sides  with  hammocks,  and  between 
them  a  long  dining-table  was  spread.  Pay- 
ing one  dollar  each  to  the  man  who  stood  on 
guard  at  the  door,  we  entered  and  took  our 
seats  at  the  table. 

Now,  there  is  one  epicurean  delicacy  with 
which  Nicaragua  abounds,  and  which  I 
hitherto  omitted  to  mention — beans.  From 
the  time  we  left  the  harbor  of  Greytown  and 
all  the  way  up  the  river  we  had  them  for 
breakfast,  dinner  and  supper.  "What  a 
Paradise  for  a  Boston  man,"  I  thought,  and 
as  I  knew  my  friend  had  no  Boston  appetite 
for  beans,  I  made  the  thought  loud  enough 
to  catch  his  ear. 

But    "beans"    is    not    their    Nicaraguan 

name.     He  who  hankers  after  them  must 

ask  for  "frejolis."     However,  if  his  palate 

should  have  the  disposition  of  mine,  he  will 

get  over  his  hankering  before  he  has  been 

long  in  the  country. 

But  to  return  to  our  dinner.     The  table. 
13 


l8o  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

which  was  spread  without  a  cloth  of  any 
kind,  was  about  fifty  feet  long,  and  down  the 
middle  of  it,  at  regular  intervals  of  two  feet, 
stood  huge  bowls  piled  up  with  baked  beans. 
The  remainder  of  the  menu  was  made  up  of 
fried  ham,  strings  of  jerked  beef,  and  fried 
plantains.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  the  pas- 
sengers were  always  hungry  enough  to  pay 
a  dollar  for  a  dinner  of  this  description,  we 
ought  to  make  a  pile  of  money  out  of  our 
hotel  speculation,  if  we  went  into  it.  Wheat- 
ley  was  of  the  same  opinion ;  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  when  the  landlord  showed 
us  his  inventory,  we  paid  him  his  twenty- 
two  hundred  dollars,  and  the  next  day  took 
possession. 

A  very  important  thing  now  was  to  secure 
a  good  cook,  and  by  the  merest  chance  we 
got  one.  He  was  a  Mahonese,  and  had  been 
in  the  employ  of  Uncle  Sam  for  years  as  a 
chef  on  one  of  his  warships.  He  knew  his 
business,  and  expected  to  be  paid  for  his 
knowledge  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month.  We  agreed  to  his  terms,  as 
he  would  take  no  less,  and  delay  was  dan- 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  l8l 

gerous.  The  former  cook  had  already  left 
for  San  Juan  del  Sud,  on  his  way  to  San 
Francisco,  and  we  must  fill  the  gap  at  once 
or  drive  the  passengers  that  were  now  with 
us  to  seek  another  hotel. 

It  was  three  days  before  word  reached  us 
from  the  Pacific  side  that  the  steamer  had 
arrived  to  take  the  passengers  on  their  way. 
During  this  time  we  had  about  one  hundred 
of  them,  each  paying  us  $4.00  a  day — that 
is,  $3.00  for  their  meals  and  $1.00  for  their 
sleeping  accommodations,  which  might  be 
in  a  hammock,  or  on  the  floor;  and  not  a 
board  floor,  either.  Beds  and  board  floors 
were  luxuries  of  civilization  as  yet  unknown 
in  Virgin  Bay.  The  hammocks  sometimes 
would  be  at  a  premium,  and  it  was  not  an 
unusual  thing  to  hear  one  of  the  floor- 
occupants  dickering  for  a  change  of  berths 
with  his  more  fortunate  companion  who  was 
swinging  comfortably  a  few  feet  above  his 
head.  Their  dickerings  sometimes  amused 
me,  and  here  is  a  specimen  of  them  which 
may,  perhaps,  hold  some  amusement  for  the 
reader. 


1 82  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Tom,  I  '11  give  you  two  dollars  to  swap 
berths." 

"No,  you  won't." 

"Two  and  a  half?" 

"Not  if  the  Court  knows  herself." 

"Then,  what '11  you  take?" 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  like  taking'  anything 
just  now.  Go  to  sleep  and  don't  bother  me. 
Maybe  I  '11  oblige  you  and  take  something — 
in  the  morning." 

Our  hopes  were  now  in  full  feather.  We 
were  convinced  that  we  had  taken  the  right 
road  to  fortune,  and  our  propitious  start 
flattered  us  that  the  journey  would  be  a  short 
and  pleasant  one.  But  the  course  of  tropical 
hotel  keeping,  like  that  of  true  love,  does  n't 
always  run  smooth.  Here  is  an  instance 
where  it  ran  a  little  the  other  way.  Out  in 
the  lake,  and  directly  opposite  to  Virgin 
Bay,  is  an  island  from  which  two  extinct 
volcanoes  rear  their  bare  summits  4000  feet 
into  the  air.  One  is  named  Ometepec  and  the 
other  Madeira — stop  a  moment.  I  have 
stated  that  Ometepec  is  an  extinct  volcano, 
but  that  is  not  exactly  true.     Volcanoes  are 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 83 

as  fickle  as  maidens  of  sixteen.  They  may  be 
in  an  amiable  mood  to-day,  but  there  's  no 
telling  what  humor  may  take  possession  of 
them  to-morrow.  For  centuries  previous  to 
our  visit  Ometepec  had  been  called  a  "dead 
volcano,"  and,  when  we  saw  it,  to  all  appear- 
ance it  was  as  dead  as  the  proverbial  mack- 
erel. And  thus  it  slept  in  corpse-like  quiet 
for  thirty  years  more,  or  until  June  19,  1883. 
Then  it  suddenly  awoke,  and  for  seven  days 
and  nights  kept  up  a  belch  of  fire,  accom- 
panied with  rumblings  and  earthquakes. 
When  the  belching  ceased,  desolation  reign- 
ed. The  whole  population  of  the  island  had 
fled  to  the  mainland,  and  the  fertile  slopes 
of  the  mountain,  which  had  been  under  cul- 
tivation for  hundreds  of  years,  were  buried 
in  mud,  lava,  ashes,  and  rocks — the  scoria- 
ceous  vomit  of  a  volcanic  stomach. 

There  is  a  moral  to  all  this:  "Put  not 
your  trust  in  princes,"  nor  in  dead  volcanoes. 

And  now  to  take  up  the  thread  of  my 
story.  Ometepec  and  Madeira  are  united  at 
their  bases,  and  cover  the  island,  which  is 
twenty- four  miles  in  circumference.  Through 


184  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  gap  between  the  two  the  trade-winds 
sweep  on  their  way  to  the  Pacific,  and  their 
sweep,  which  is  continual,  has  sometimes 
a  velocity  that  is  a  little  cyclonic.  On  the 
sixth  day  after  we  had  taken  possession  of 
the  hotel  they  ripped  the  roof  from  over  us 
and  left  the  establishment  bare-headed. 

This  was  a  reverse  severe  enough  to  de- 
stroy whatever  faith  we  may  have  had  in 
canvas  roofs;  and  to  avoid  its  repetition  we 
resolved  to  replace  the  blow-away  with  a 
covering  of  thatch.  To  do  this  we  were 
forced  to  rely  upon  the  labor  of  the  natives, 
and  native  labor  was  hard  to  get.  A 
Greaser  is  never  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  work, 
and  won't,  so  long  as  he  has  a  half-dime  in 
his  pocket  to  buy  a  glass  of  "Aguardiente." 
The  reader,  probably,  has  never  had  an  op- 
portunity to  try  this  brain-befuddler.  It  is 
the  liquor  of  the  country,  and  will  tangle  up 
the  legs  of  an  imbibing  neophyte  in  a  much 
shorter  time  than  either  Jersey's  apple- 
jack or  her  celebrated  "lightning." 

We  tried  to  tempt  the  Greasers  with  the 
promise  of  a  dollar  a  day  for  their  work,  but 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 85 

their  laziness  would  n't  listen.  They  would 
pull  out  a  half-dime  and  hold  it  up  to  our 
view  with  the  exclamation :  "Manana" — 
that  is  to  say :  "To-morrow,  when  this  is 
gone !" 

If  their  labor  was  hard  to  get,  it  was  quite 
as  hard  to  hold  when  we  had  it.  Each  man 
insisted  upon  having  his  pay  when  his  day's 
work  was  done;  if  he  got  it,  we  wouldn't 
see  him  again  for  a  week ;  and  if  he  did  n't 
get  it,  he  would  leave  us  altogether. 

Under  such  a  difficulty  it  was  n't  strange 
that  our  roof  made  but  slow  progress — so 
slow  that  a  full  month  had  expired  before 
its  three-thousand  square  feet  of  thatching 
was  finished,  and  we  were  once  more  under 
shelter. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  jigger  and  the  mos- 
quito, together  with  their  insinuating  ways, 
but  the  reader  must  not  imagine  that  they 
were  the  only  borers  into  our  anatomy  and 
comfort.  There  were  millions  of  venomous 
ants  that  marched  in  armies,  determined  to 
take  possession  of  our  house  and  person; 
myriads  of  fleas,  possessed  of  a  like  determi- 


1 86  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

nation ;  countless  scorpions  that  took  up  their 
nightly  quarters  in  our  boots,  to  give  our  toes 
an  early  surprise  in  the  morning;  hairy  ta- 
rantulas, hiding  in  bunches  of  plantains  and 
bananas,  with  their  fiery  eyes  watching  for 
our  fingers  to  come  within  reach  of  their 
spring;  green  snakes,  with  danger  in  their 
fangs,  nestling  in  the  thatch  above  our  head, 
to  drop  upon  us  in  our  sleeping  moments; 
and  last,  but  not  least,  that  mighty  mite  of 
vermin,  named  by  entomologic  science  pedi- 
ciiliis  tahcscenthiin,  but  better  known  to  the 
world  at  large  as  the  louse.  In  the  North, 
where  civilization  and  soap  and  water  have 
their  sway,  this  little  gray-backed  creature 
is  supposed  to  seek  no  other  human  com- 
panionship save  that  of  him  with  bathless 
propensity ;  but  in  the  Paradise  of  the  world 
it  has  no  preference. 

The  reader  may  think  I  am  prejudiced 
against  the  "land  of  orange  blossoms,"  and 
exaggerating  its  discomforts.  If  that  be  his 
opinion  I  will  not  attempt  to  undeceive  him. 
I  am  merely  giving  him  what  I  learned  from 
that    "school-marm    of  fools,"  Experience. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 8/ 

She  is  a  costly,  but  thorough  teacher,  and 
perhaps  he  would  rather  learn  the  truth  di- 
rect from  her,  than  take  it  at  second-hand 
from  one  of  her  scholars. 

And  now  to  give  one  of  my  adventures 
of  which,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  more  than  I 
wanted.  Among  the  trappings  we  had 
brought  from  the  States  was  a  large  tent, 
20x40  feet  in  size.  This  we  had  erected  on 
the  lot  adjoining  our  hotel,  and  fitted  it  up 
with  berths.  "Now,"  said  Wheatley,  "I 
am  going  to  try  to  be  comfortable.  We  have 
lived  long  enough  upon  the  ground  in  the 
company  of  fleas  and  jiggers  and  I  intend  to 
have  a  board  floor  to  this  tent,  if  there  be 
any  such  things  as  boards  in  the  land  of 
Nicaragua." 

"If  there  be?  'If  is  a  little  word,  but 
Touchstone  says  there's  much  virtue  in  it — 
Where  do  you  expect  to  find  your  boards  ?" 

"Listen  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  had  a 
talk  with  the  Captain  of  the  Central  America 
on  this  board  question  and  he  tells  me  we 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  all  we 
want  in  Granada.     He  also  tells  me  that  his 


l88  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Steamer  will  make  a  trip  there  in  a  few  days, 
but  advises  me  not  to  wait  for  that,  for  the 
natives  of  Granada,  he  says,  are  as  shrewd 
as  Yankees  and  when  they  see  the  steamer 
coming,  they  presume  we  are  after  purchases 
of  some  sort,  and  push  up  the  price  of  every- 
thing fifty  per  cent.    He  says  the  better  way 
would  be  to  go  up  myself  on  horseback,  or 
send  somebody,  two  or  three  days  before  the 
steamer  arrives  there ;  then  to  buy  our  boards 
and  whatever  else  we  may  need,  and  he  will 
bring  them  down  for  us." 
I  saw  what  was  coming. 
''Well.  William,"  I  said,  "don't  beat  about 
the  bush,  but  come  to  the  point.    As  you  are 
not   anxious   for   a   seventy-mile   horseback 
ride  through  a  Nicaraguan  wilderness,  I  am 
to  be  the  somebody  to  take  your  place?" 
"That  is  it,  precisely.    You  don't  object?" 
"Object?     No;  quite  the  contrary.     Al- 
though I  have  never  in  my  life  been  on  the 
back  of  a  horse,  and  may  reach  Granada  with 
a  broken  neck,  yet  I  am  rather  delighted  at 
the  chance  of  seeing  a  little  more  of  the  coun- 
try than  I  see  here." 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  189 

Then  I  called  Eusebio — one  of  our  native 
servants — and  told  him  to  hire  a  couple  of 
horses,  one  for  himself  and  the  other  for  me. 
"But,  be  very  careful,"  I  said,  "in  the  choice 
of  mine.  I  want  no  circus  horse — no  shyer 
and  prancer,  but  a  staid,  old  plodder  that 
knows  how  to  get  over  the  ground  without 
pitching  its  rider  into  the  mud." 

He  brought  the  horses,  and  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  mounted  into 
the  saddles.  Being  my  first  appearance  in 
the  character  of  a  horseman  and  my  first 
attempt  at  "mounting  the  saddle"  I  was  not 
astonished  to  hear  a  titter  among  the  native 
spectators.  Well,  perhaps,  they  had  reasons 
for  their  tittering;  if  they  had,  they  were 
soon  to  have  more  of  them. 

"Which  way,  Senor?"  asked  Eusebio. 

"To  Granada,"  I  replied,  and  he  turned 
his  horse's  head  toward  the  path  that  led  up 
the  lake. 

I  tried  to  guide  my  horse  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. He  took  one  step  forward  and  then 
began  to  go  round  in  a  circle.  When  I  at- 
tempted to  stop  his  gyrations  by  pulling  the 


190  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

opposite  rein,  it  had  no  effect  except  to  make 
him  gyrate  the  other  way ;  or  else,  to  lessen 
the  scope  of  his  circle,  and  revolve  as  if  on 
a  pivot.  All  of  which  was  highly  entertain- 
ing to  the  natives  for  the  "Merry-go-  round" 
was  then  a  novelty  as  yet  unknown  to  the 
world. 

I  beckoned  to  Eusebio  who  was  now  some 
distance  ahead,  looking  over  his  shoulder 
to  see  why  his  master  was  not  following  him. 
When  he  came  up,  I  asked  him :  "What's 
the  matter  with  this  animal,  Eusebio?  I  told 
you  I  didn't  want  a  circus  horse." 

He  laughed  and  with  a  few  words  cleared 
up  the  trouble.  In  training  the  Nicara- 
guan  horse,  as  well  as  the  mule,  he  is  taught 
to  obey  the  rein,  not  by  pulling  on  it,  but  by 
laying  it  gently  over  either  side  of  his  neck. 
To  turn  him  to  the  right,  the  left  rein  is  laid 
over  the  left  side;  to  turn  him  to  the  left, 
the  right  rein  is  laid  over  the  right  side.  I^ 
either  rein  should  be  pulled  he  will  com- 
mence his  revolutions  and  keep  them  up  so 
long  as  the  pulling  lasts. 

After  this  little  lesson  I  had  no  trouble 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  I9I 

with  my  horse,  and  felt  as  though  I  owed 
him  an  apology  for  my  stupidity. 

Our  way  along  the  lake  was  not  such  a 
one  as  could  be  traveled  by  a  horse  with 
any  sort  of  a  vehicle  behind  him.  It  was  a 
mere  trail  that  wound  its  course  between 
the  trees  and  among  the  tangled  shrubbery. 
When  these  became  too  thick,  the  trail  would 
emerge  from  the  edge  of  the  forest,  follow 
the  lake  beach  for  a  hundred  or  more  yards 
and  then  bury  itself  again  in  the  depths  of 
the  wood.  Thus,  alternately  in  the  shade 
and  sunshine,  we  jogged  along,  and  so 
pleasantly  that  I  began  to  think  I  had  been 
hasty,  and,  perhaps,  unjust  in  my  opinion 
that  there  were  no  charms  in  a  tropical  life 
for  a  Northern  man.  I  say  I  began  to  think 
so,  but  the  thought  had  barely  budded  when 
my  hat  struck  an  overhanging  limb.  I  look- 
ed up  and  almost  at  the  same  instant  I  felt 
a  sharp  pain  in  my  upper  lip.  Putting  my 
hand  quickly  to  my  mouth  I  took  hold  of  a 
black  ant  that  had  his  fangs  fixed  so  firmly 
in  my  lip  he  preferred  to  part  with  his  head 
rather  than  let  go.     He  was  a  full  three- 


192  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

fourths  of  an  inch  long,  without  his  head, 
which  would  have  added  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  more.  The  tree  from  which  he  fell  was 
of  the  thorn  variety,  the  thorns  being  from 
three  to  four  inches  in  length;  at  the  base 
of  each  was  a  small  hole  and  each  hole  was 
the  entrance  to  the  house  of  one  of  these 
ants.  I  was  fortunate  in  not  shaking  out 
any  more  of  them. 

But  to  return  to  my  lip.  It  began  to  swell 
and  with  such  rapidity  that,  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  it  felt  like  a  boxing-glove  under 
my  nose. 

Eusebio  recommended  a  mud  poultice — 
not  an  agreeable  thing  to  plaster  over  a 
man's  mouth.  However  the  pain  was  too 
severe  to  allow  any  squeamishness  on  my 
part ;  so  Eusebio  got  off  his  horse  and  going 
to  the  edge  of  the  lake  brought  therefrom 
a  handful  of  mud  which  he  plastered  over 
my  mouth  and  lip,  tying  my  handkerchief 
around  to  keep  it  in  place.  The  relief  was 
almost  instantaneous.  By  the  time  we  reach- 
ed Rivas  all  pain  was  banished  and  my  lip 
had  resumed  its  normal  size  and  shape. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 93 

The  sun  was  still  an  hour  high  when  we 
stopped  in  front  of  the  hotel  in  Rivas,  but 
I  resolved  to  go  no  further  that  night.  I  was 
wearied  by  my  novel  exercise ;  besides,  there 
was  no  other  accommodation  ahead  of  us 
nearer  than  Nyndime,  a  little  village  some 
fifty  miles  up  the  lake. 

Rivas  had  at  that  time  a  population  of 
about  ten  thousand  souls.  Whether  the 
passing  of  a  half-century  has  increased  or 
lessened  the  number  I  have  never  had  the 
curiosity  to  know.  Its  principal  hotel  then, 
and  the  only  one  of  any  account,  was  kept 
by  a  Captain  Cauty,  an  Englishman,  who 
had  been  some  time  in  the  country  and  whose 
acquaintance  we  made  as  owner  of  the 
ground  upon  which  our  tent  stood.  His 
hotel  was  a  large  and  comfortable  one-story 
structure,  built  of  adobe  and  roofed  with 
tiles.  Like  all  the  better  class  of  Nicara- 
guan  houses,  it  had  its  four  sides  with  an 
enclosed  court-yard  in  which  tropical  plants 
and  flowers  were  growing  in  wanton  pro- 
fusion. 

The  Captain  received  me  cordially,   and 


194  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

spread  an  excellent  supper  for  my  entertain- 
ment. It  was  about  the  only  meal  I  had  as 
yet  eaten  in  the  "Land  of  orange  blossoms" 
without  the  presence  of  beans.  Our  break- 
fast was  equally  good  and  it  was  served 
early  enough  to  allow  us  to  eat  our  way 
leisurely  through  it  and  yet  be  off  on  our 
road  by  sunrise. 

And  now  I  began  to  long  for  the  end  of 
my  ride,  the  novelty  of  which  was  fast  losing 
its  gloss  and  growing  threadbare.  The 
novelty  of  a  good  road  would  have  been  more 
to  my  liking,  for  I  was  tired  of  constantly 
picking  my  way  between  rocks  and  around 
bowlders  and  under  the  limbs  of  thorn  trees, 
whose  branches  were  ever  threatening  me 
with  a  shower  of  ants. 

Eusebio  saw  that  my  spirits  were  droop- 
ing and  tried  to  revive  them,  but  took  a  very 
peculiar  method  of  doing  it.  He  would 
point  out  on  the  wayside  certain  clumps  of 
bushes  and  rocky  caves  in  which  he  said  the 
native  bandits  were  in  the  habit  of  hiding 
and  waiting  for  the  unsuspecting  traveler. 
When    the    latter    approached,    they    would 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  I95 

pounce  upon  him,  relieve  him  of  his  money 
or  other  valuables,  then  cut  him  up  with 
their  machetes  and  toss  the  pieces  into  the 
lake. 

He  had  just  pointed  out  to  me  one  of 
these  spots  and  was  about  finishing  the  en- 
livening story  connected  with  it,  when  I  saw 
a  man  coming  toward  us  on  horseback.  He 
wore  a  sombrero,  a  white  linen  jacket,  and  a 
pair  of  trousers  of  the  same  material,  en- 
circled at  the  waist  by  a  gaudy-colored  sash. 
There  was  nothing  singular  about  such  a 
costume,  for  it  is  a  common  one  of  the  coun- 
try ;  but  there  was  something  singular  about 
the  pair  of  eyes  that  flashed  from  under  that 
sombrero.  Instinctively  I  put  one  hand  on 
the  butt  of  my  revolver,  and  the  other  in  the 
pocket  of  my  coat.  In  the  latter  there  was 
four  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  gold,  for  my 
purchases  in  Granada,  and  I  was  not  anxious 
to  part  with  it  for  any  other  purpose. 

Was  I  alarmed  without  cause?     Perhaps 

so,  for  the  fellow  merely  nodded  a  "buenas 

dias,  Senor,"  and  passed  on. 

"Who  is  that  fellow,  Eusebio  ?" 
14 


196  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Ouien  sabe,  I  never  saw  him  before." 

"Nor  I;  and  shall  lose  no  sleep  for  not 
seeing  him  again.  How  far  are  we  from 
Granada?" 

"Twelve  miles,  Senor." 

"And  from  Nyndime?" 

"Five  miles,  Senor." 

"Then  let  us  be  brisk  or  the  night  may 
catch  us." 

The  trail,  which  we  had  followed  so  long, 
now  widened  into  a  passable  road  that 
wound  its  way  among  fields  of  plantain  and 
through  groves  of  orange  trees  with  their 
overhanging  branches  bending  under  the 
weight  of  their  fruit  of  gold. 

While  such  a  sight  generally  holds  a 
charm  for  the  eye  of  a  Northern  man,  it  held 
none  for  mine.  At  that  particular  time  1 
had  but  one  thought,  one  desire — to  get  from 
off  that  horse's  back.  I  was  tired  and  sore, 
and  the  orange  trees  could  wait  awhile  for 
my  admiration. 

"Here  we  are,  Senor,"  said  Eusebio,  and 
then  a  sudden  bend  in  the  road  brought  us 
into  the  village  of  Nyndime. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 97 

"Where's  the  hotel?"  I  asked,  "Is  there 
such  a  thing  in  the  place?" 

"Yes,  Senor;  on  the  corner  of  the  next 
street." 

The  hotel  was  of  the  usual  adobe  build, 
with  a  court-yard  interior.  The  doorway 
stood  at  the  corner  of  the  house  and  seated 
upon  the  steps  were  two  dark-eyed  Senor- 
itas  who  smilingly  invited  me  in.  On  enter- 
ing I  found  myself  in  the  bar-room,  across 
which  a  hammock  swung  diagonally  sus- 
pended from  two  corners  of  the  room. 

"Shall  I  prepare  supper  for  you,  Senor?" 
and  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  looked  at  me  in  such 
a  way  I  would  have  said  "Yes"  whether  I 
wanted  supper  or  not. 

"Si,  Senorita,  supper  for  two,"  and  I 
threw  myself  in  the  hammock.  The  supper 
was  soon  ready — ham  and  eggs,  tortillas, 
chocolate  and  a  dish  of  the  inevitable  beans ; 
not  a  banquet,  perhaps,  yet  I  enjoyed  it,  for 
I  had  eaten  nothing  but  a  couple  of  crackers 
since  I  left  Rivas. 

It  was  now  near  sunset,  and  I  determined 
not  to  attempt  the  remaining  miles  to  Gra- 


198  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

nada  in  the  night,  so  long  as  there  was  an- 
other day  coming.  Throwing  myself  in  the 
hammock  again,  I  was  about  falling  into  a 
doze  when  the  neigh  of  a  horse  caused  me  to 
open  my  eyes.  I  looked  over  the  edge  of  the 
hammock  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  fading 
day  I  saw  a  white- jacketed  native  leaning 
over  from  his  horse  and  talking  to  one  of  the 
Senoritas.  I  had  no  trouble  in  recognizing 
the  fellow  as  the  owner  of  the  eyes  that  had 
caused  me  so  much  uneasiness. 

The  conversation  of  the  two  was  carried 
on  in  so  low  a  tone  I  was  unable  to  catch  its 
purport.  However,  I  did  get  hold  of  one 
of  their  words,  "Americano,"  and  this  was 
quite  enough  to  make  me  feel  far  from  com- 
fortable. After  their  talk  had  ended,  the 
man  resumed  his  upright  position  in  the  sad- 
dle and  rode  away. 

I  then  turned  over  in  the  hammock  and 
fell  into  a  sleep.  It  must  have  been  a  sound 
one,  for  it  took  three  or  four  shakes  at  the 
foot  of  the  hammock  to  awaken  me.  I  look- 
ed up  and  saw  one  of  the  Senoritas  standing 
there  with  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  1 99 

"Get  up,  Senor ;  we  are  going  to  close  the 
house.  Follow  me  and  I  will  show  you  to 
your  room." 

She  led  the  way  out  of  the  bar-room  into 
a  long  corridor  that  ran  upon  one  side  of 
the  court-yard.  Coming  to  a  door  at  the  far 
end,  she  pushed  it  open,  saying,  "This  is  your 
room,  Senor,"  and  then  left  me.  I  paused  a 
moment  on  the  threshold  before  entering, 
for  I  saw  something  to  make  me  pause. 
There  were  two  beds  in  the  room.  On  the 
footpost  of  one  a  candle  flickered  in  a  socket, 
which  had  been  bored  in  the  post  to  receive 
it.  Upon  the  side  of  the  other,  sat  my  friend 
of  the  white  jacket. 

Now,  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  am  not 
a  courageous  man,  when  courage  is  the  one 
thing  needed.  On  the  contrary,  at  such  a 
time,  I  am  apt  to  lose,  not  only  my  presence 
of  mind,  but  also  the  control  of  my  nerves 
and  muscles.  However,  what  I  lack  in 
courage  I  make  up  in  caution. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  the  ill- 
looking  cut-throat — I  was  now  satisfied  that 
he  was  nothing  else — commenced  catechis- 


200  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

ing  me:  Where  was  I  from  and  where 
bound?  What  was  my  business?  Was  I 
a  CathoHc  or  Protestant?  To  these  and  va- 
rious other  queries,  I  gave  but  one  answer : 
"No  intiende,  Senor;"  as  this  told  him  that 
I  didn't  understand  what  he  was  talking 
about,  he  stopped  his  questions  and  lay- 
down  upon  his  bed,  without  removing  any 
of  his  clothes  except  the  white  jacket. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  prepare  for  the 
night,  and  in  doing  so  I  thought  it  policy 
to  draw  upon  my  stock  of  caution.  First,  I 
took  my  revolver  from  my  belt,  cocked  and 
recocked  it,  examining  it  closely  under  the 
candle-light — all  of  which  manoeuvres  were, 
of  course,  intended  for  the  edification  of  mv 
friend  of  the  white-jacket.  Then  I  placed 
the  weapon  under  my  pillow,  blew  out  the 
light  and  lay  down  with  all  my  clothes  on, 
pulling  my  blanket  over  me.  I  lay  with  my 
face  toward  the  other  bed,  nor  did  I  change 
my  position  until  the  hard  cowhide  beneath 
me  began  to  worry  my  hip-bone  and  threat- 
en to  push  it  through  the  flesh.  In  order  to 
turn  on  my  other  side  and  still  keep  my  face 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  20I 

outward  it  was  necessary  to  wheel  my  body 
round  and  let  my  feet  change  places  with  my 
head.  This  I  did,  and  then  "tired  Nature" 
had  her  way  and  I  slept. 

How  long  I  had  slept,  or  what  disturbed 
my  slumber,  I  knew  not,  but  it  was  broken, 
and  in  an  instant  I  was  wide  awake.  The 
room  was  as  dark  as  Erebus  and  silent  as 
the  grave.  I  strained  my  ears  to  catch  the 
breathing  of  my  white- jacketed  companion 
but  heard  no  sound  save  the  ticking  of  my 
watch.  My  thoughts  were  centered  solely 
upon  him.  Was  he  really  a  cut-throat,  or 
only  a  harmless  native  metamorphosed  into 
one  by  my  heated  imagination?  I  wasn't 
long  in  doubt.  A  light  footfall  on  the  brick 
floor  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  then  I  felt 
my  blanket  being  lifted  slowly  from  off  my 
feet,  while  a  hand  passed  gently  under  them. 
Drops  of  perspiration  oozed  from  my  brow 
and  as  freely  as  if  it  were  a  squeezed  sponge. 
One  moment's  pause  to  try  to  pierce  the 
darkness,  and  then  I  seized  my  revolver, 
jumped  from  the  bed  and  flung  open  the 
door. 


202  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

The  day  was  breaking,  and  by  its  gray 
light  I  saw  the  fellow  crouching  upon  the 
side  of  his  bed.  How  I  managed  to  raise 
the  revolver  and  point  it  at  his  head  is  now 
a  matter  of  mystery  to  me;  but  I  did  make 
that  use  of  it,  although  the  muzzle  wabbled 
in  too  eccentric  a  fashion  to  be  dangerous. 
But  the  object  of  it  didn't  seem  to  notice  the 
wabbling.  Trembling  like  a  leaf  in  the 
wind,  he  dropped  on  his  knees  and,  lifting 
both  hands,  cried  out  imploringly:  "Don't 
shoot,  Senor!     Please  don't  shoot!" 

I  did  n't  shoot,  nor  did  I  intend  to ;  but 
the  fellow's  abject  show  of  fear  had  so  stiff- 
ened the  backbone  of  my  courage  that  again 
I  pointed  the  revolver  at  his  head.  The  muz- 
zle of  the  weapon  did  not  wabble  quite  so 
much  now,  and  he  had  no  trouble  in  keeping 
his  eye  on  it,  while  I  threw  at  him  some  of 
his  own  lingo  which  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
comprehending. 

■'What  do  you  mean,  you  rascal,  by  fum- 
bling over  my  bed  ?" 

"Don't  shoot,  Senor!  My  blanket — I 
was  hunting  for  my  blanket." 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  203 

"Hunting  for  your  blanket?  A  likely 
story — what  is  that?"  and  I  pointed  toward 
his  horse,  which  stood  in  the  court-yard, 
with  his  blanket  thrown  over  it  and  already 
saddled  for  the  departure  he  had  contem- 
plated taking  in  company  with  my  valuables. 

However  slim  my  stock  of  courage  may 
hitherto  have  been,  I  had  enough  of  it  now 
to  equip  the  hero  of  a  dime  novel.  "Come," 
I  said,  "there  's  your  blanket ;  now  vamoose ! 
and  don't  be  long  about  it,  or  I'll  bore  a  hole 
through  you  big  enough  to  stuff  it  in !" 

He  wasn't  long  about  it.  Mounting  his 
horse  and  digging  his  spur  into  the  animal's 
side,  he  galloped  through  the  gate  of  the 
court-yard.  I  looked  and  saw  him  take  the 
road  to  Granada  with  his  horse  on  the  full 
run,  his  sombrero  flaring  in  the  wind,  and 
the  ends  of  his  gaudy  sash  streaming  out 
behind  him. 

The  reason  for  the  fellow's  fumbling 
around  my  feet  was  lucid  enough.  He  saw 
me  lie  down  with  my  head  at  that  end  of  the 
bed,  and,  in  the  dark,  was  not  aware  that  I 
had    changed    my    position.      His    object, 


204  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

doubtless,  was  to  get  hold  of  my  revolver. 
If  he  could  have  secured  that,  he  thought  it 
would  be  easy  work  to  secure  whatever  else 
I  might  have.  And  probably  it  would  have 
been. 

\Miether  the  dark-eyed  Senoritas  were  in 
the  plot  to  rob  me  and  share  the  plunder,  I 
know  not ;  but  it  wore  that  complexion. 

Sunrise  saw  us  again  on  our  way.  I  told 
Eusebio  of  my  night's  adventure,  and  that  I 
thought  it  would  be  wise  to  keep  our  eyes 
about  us,  for  when  I  saw  the  fellow  last  he 
was  on  the  very  road  we  were  now  traveling 
and  might  be  lying  in  wait  "to  carve  us  up 
with  his  machete  and  toss  the  pieces  into  the 
lake." 

My  apprehension  was  groundless.  Not  a 
soul  of  the  Spanish  type,  or  of  any  other, 
did  we  see  until  we  reached  the  suburbs  of 
Granada. 

Like  all  cities  of  Central  America,  the 
suburbs  of  this  one  are  the  habitat  of  the 
poorer  classes,  whose  huts  are  built  of  cane 
and  thatched  with  grass  or  palm.  In  the 
city  proper  the  houses  are  of  one  story,  built 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  205 

of  adobe  and  roofed  with  tiles.  Nearly  four 
centuries  have  passed  since  the  city  was 
founded,  and  at  on^  time  it  was  the  richest 
in  North  America.  But  that  was  long  ago, 
and  it  has  since  dwindled  down  to  a  place  of 
little  or  no  importance.  It  lies  at  the  foot 
of  the  volcano  Momobacho  and,  during  its 
four  hundred  years  of  existence,  has  had 
many  a  shake  of  terrestrial  nature.  The  pop- 
ulation is  about  ten  thousand. 

But  I  must  drop  my  out-of-the-way  tan- 
gents and  take  up  the  object  of  my  visit — 
boards.  They  could  be  had  at  only  one  place 
and  at  only  one  price — cinqito  pesos,  or 
$5.00  each.  They  were  sawed  from  trees  of 
bastard  mahogany  and  measured  twelve  feet 
by  fifteen  or  eighteen  inches. 

The  next  morning  the  steamer  arrived, 
and  in  the  evening  the  boards,  together  with 
myself  and  some  other  live  stock  in  the  shape 
of  fifty  chickens,  were  on  board  and  bound 
for  La  Virgin. 

On  my  return  I  found  my  partner's  mind 
much  exercised  over  a  certain  matter,  and 
the  story  of  the  matter  may  contain  a  little 


206  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

amusement  for  the  reader.  Before  I  tell  it, 
however,  a  short  explanation  will  be  neces- 
sary in  order  to  lull  the  scruples  of  such 
readers  as  may  have  a  reasonable  prejudice 
against  all  transactions  that  look  slippery. 
Nicaraguan  laws  relating  to  personal  prop- 
erty are  somewhat  lax;  at  least,  we  found 
them  so,  as  far  as  their  sway  controlled  the 
population  of  Virgin  Bay.  Whatever  a  man 
owned  was  his,  so  long  as  it  was  in  his  pos- 
session ;  when  it  slipped  out  of  it,  no  matter 
how,  it  belonged  to  the  somebody  who  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  hold  of  it. 

And  now  for  the  story.  I  had  scarcely 
entered  our  domicile  when  my  partner  ap- 
proached me  with  a  serious  look  on  his  face 
and  a  couple  of  sheets  of  foolscap  in  his 
hand : 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  the  in- 
ventory that  was  given  us  with  our  hotel  ?" 

"Yes,  what  of  it?" 

"Why,  I  have  it  here,  and  in  looking  it 
over  carefully,  I  find  there  's  a  ten-dollar  pig 
in  it." 

"Well?" 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY, 


207 


"But  it  is  n't  well,  my  boy.  Though  I  find 
the  pig  in  the  inventory,  I  can  find  him  no 
where  else.  There  's  a  sty  back  of  the  tent, 
but  no  ten-dollar  pig  in  it  nor  any  other  kind 
of  one.  Now  I  am  rather  fond  of  fresh  pork, 
and  think  I  am  entitled  to  a  slice  of  that  pig. 
My  palate  is  getting  tired  of  these  everlast- 
ing strings  of  jerked  beef." 

'T  've  no  doubt  of  that ;  a  pork  chop  would 
be  more  paradisal.  But  why  don't  you  take 
your  gim  and  try  your  luck  in  the  woods? 
The  flesh  of  a  bird  or  two  might  give  your 
palate  a  rest." 

He  reached  for  the  gun  that  stood  behind 
the  bar. 

"A  good  idea,  my  boy;  strange  that  I 
never  thought  of  it!  Hand  me  the  powder 
horn  and  shot  pouch  out  of  that  drawer,  and 
if  I  don't  bring  you  something  in  half  an 
hour  that  will  make  you  smack  your  lips, 
I  '11  be  content  to  live  the  remainder  of  my 
days  on  beans  and  jerked  beef !" 

He  shouldered  his  gun  and  started  for  the 
woods,  the  edge  of  which  lay  fifty  feet  in 
the  rear  of  our  hotel. 


208  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

I  lighted  a  cigar,  picked  up  a  book,  and 
seating  myself  in  the  shade  at  the  front  of 
the  tent,  passed  away  an  hour,  reading  at 
times,  and  now  and  then  lifting  my  thoughts 
from  the  book  and  dropping  them  into  the 
far-away  haunts  of  civilization. 

I  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  squeal  of 
a  pig.  At  first  the  sound  came  faintly,  as  if 
far  away,  then  louder  and  louder  grew,  until 
at  last  it  seemed  to  come  from  the  very  edge 
of  the  woods.  I  rose  from  my  chair  and 
looked  back.  A  pig  was  there  sure  enough. 
And  Wheatley  was  there,  too,  pulling  at  a 
rope  which  he  had  managed  in  some  way  to 
hitch  around  one  of  the  pig's  hind  legs. 
While  my  partner  was  trying  his  best  to 
drag  the  pig  in  one  direction,  the  pig  was 
trying  equally  hard  to  drag  my  partner  the 
opposite  way.  These  cross-purposes  were 
plainly  owing  to  a  mistake  of  Wheatley' s — 
he  had  made  his  hitch  at  the  wrong  end. 

As  I  looked  around  the  corner  of  our  tent, 
he' caught  sight  of  me : 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Joe,  lend  me  a  little 
help  with  this  fellow,  or  I  shall  have  to  let 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  2O9 

him  go.  He  has  made  my  hands  all  a- 
blister." 

Then  came  another  tug  and  another 
squeal,  by  which  time  I  was  on  the  field  of 
action,  and  greeted  by  an  exclamation  that 
somewhat  surprised  me: 

"My  boy,  I  've  found  that  pig  of  ours!" 

"That  pig  of  ours?"  I  echoed. 

"Yes,  here  he  is." 

"I  see  there  is  a  pig  here,  but  how  do  you 
know  he  is  our  pig?" 

"How  do  I  know  it?  By  using  the  sim- 
plest bit  of  logic.  If  he  isn't  our  pig,  please 
tell  me  whose  pig  is  he?" 

This  "bit  of  logic"  was  more  simple  than 
sound;  however,  as  I  couldn't  answer  his 
question,  I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to 
dispute  the  soundness  of  his  logic.  I  merely 
remarked  :  "I  don't  wonder  your  hands  are 
blistered;  you  have  made  your  hitch  at  the 
wrong  end." 

"I  couldn't  help  that,  my  dear  fellow. 
When  T  threw  my  lasso,  I  aimed  it  for  one 
of  his  fore  legs,  but  he  was  quick  enough 
to  step  out  of  it,  and  when  I  tightened  the 


2IO  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

rope  I  found  my  hitch,  as  you  rightly  say, 
at  the  wrong  end." 

"You  must  have  had  a  Sisyphean  task  on 
your  hands." 

"Sisyphean?  My  boy,  if  Sisyphus  had 
been  condemned  in  the  World  of  Shades  to 
pull  that  pig  backward  for  half  a  mile,  he 
would  have  encountered  more  up-hill  work 
in  it  than  he  ever  did  in  his  big  marble  block. 
Anyhow,  he  would  have  earned  his  chops, 
as  I  am  sure  that  I  have." 

There  was  little  doubt  that  my  partner  had 
"earned  his  chops,"  and  none  at  all  that  he 
afterwards  enjoyed  the  fruits  of  his  labor. 
But  what  was  my  astonishment,  a  week 
afterwards,  to  see  him  walk  into  the  back 
of  the  tent  with  another  pig.  Without  giv- 
ing me  time  to  ask  any  questions,  he  said: 

"Joe,  I  made  a  mistake  about  that  other 
pig;  he  wasn't  ours  at  all.  But  there's  no 
mistake  this  time;  here  he  is!" 

I  have  never  as  yet  been  able  to  solve  the 
mystery  that  hung  around  "that  pig  of 
ours."  However,  if  there  were  any  more  of 
him  roaming  and  foraging  in  the  woods  of 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  211 

Nicaragua,    my    partner    was    thenceforth 
content  to  let  it  roam  and  forage  in  peace. 

The  next  steamer  day  was  a  notable  one 
for  us.  We  captured  about  two  hundred 
of  the  passengers,  and  among  them  were  the 
then  famous  New  Orleans  Serenaders — the 
head  and  front  of  them  being  the  Buckley 
Brothers.  Frank  Chanfrau,  the  actor  and 
friend  of  both  of  us,  was  also  among  the 
number  whom  we  now  expected  to  be  our 
guests  until  the  arrival  of  their  steamer  at 
San  Juan  del  Sud. 

Virgin  Bay  is  within  twelve  miles  of  mule 
travel  from  San  Juan,  and  it  was  always 
our  endeavor,  and,  of  course,  to  our  interest, 
to  detain  the  passengers  as  long  as  possible. 
A  few  of  them  would  become  impatient  and 
leave  us,  but  the  majority  were  satisfied  to 
remain  until  we  notified  them  of  the  arrival 
of  their  steamer  at  San  Juan. 

I  have  said  nothing  as  yet  regarding  the 

nature  of  the  "fodder"  we  furnished  for  their 

sustenance.      Possibly,    from   what   I   have 

hinted,  the  reader  may  guess  that  "beans" 

played  an  important  part.     They  did.     The 
15 


212  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Other  prominent  features  of  the  bill  of  fare 
were  jerked  beef,  tortillas,  or  corn  cakes, 
plantains,  "bottled"  butter  and  barreled 
egg-s.  ("Bottled  butter"  is  not  in  any  way 
related  to  the  cow,  but  only  a  new  and  appe- 
tizing name  for  peanut  oil.)  It  is  perhaps 
needless  to  speak  of  the  Nicaraguan  bar- 
reled eggs,  for  they  are  not  at  all  bashful 
and,  if  they  have  an  opportunity,  will  speak 
for  themselves.  We  had  three  or  four  bar- 
rels of  them  that  came  into  our  possession 
with  the  purchase  of  the  hotel,  and  there 
was  no  other  way  of  disposing  of  them 
profitably  except  through  the  stomachs  of 
the  passengers.  If  the  question  were  some- 
times asked  me — as  it  often  was — "Hello ! 
Landlord ;  what's  the  matter  with  these 
eggs  ?"  I  could  only  answer :  "I  don't  know. 
If  there's  anything  wrong  with  them  you 
must  ask  the  Nicaraguan  hens.  That 's  the 
style  of  eggs  they  lay  down  here." 

Sometimes  the  answer  would  be  satisfac- 
tory— if  the  man  were  a  Californian. 
Northern  men  just  from  the  States  were 
more  skeptical,  and  one  of  them,  in  reply 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  2I3 

to  my  explanation,  told  me  that  he  thought 
it  "dern  strange  that  a  Nicaraguan  hen 
didn't  understand  her  business  better  than 
to  turn  out  an  egg  with  a  pop  in  it  like  a 
toy  pistol." 

Of  course,  the  Nicaraguan  hen  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  eggs  were  laid, 
nobody  knows  when,  nobody  knows  where, 
and  barreled  for  the  delectation  of  those 
whom  fortune,  or  misfortune,  had  thrown 
beyond  the  pale  of  civilization  with  appetites 
too  fierce  to  be  squeamish  or  discriminating. 

I  have  said  that  the  day  of  the  steamer's 
arrival  was  a  notable  one — notable  because 
it  brought  us  the  company  of  friends,  and 
made  us  forget,  for  a  time,  the  company  of 
fleas  and  jiggers. 

When  the  night  came  and  the  supper  was 
over,  the  long  table  was  cleared,  the  sere- 
naders  gathered  round  it  and  the  Buckleys 
gave  us  a  musical  program  arranged 
especially  for  our  entertainment.  It  was 
then  that  we  heard  for  the  first  time  that 
negro  melody  which  afterwards  became  so 
popular  and  which  has  not  yet  lost  its  pop- 


214  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

ularity  though  fifty  years  have  passed — 
"The  Old  Folks  at  Home."  It  was  sung 
by  one  of  the  Buckleys,  and  with  so  much 
pathos  that  I  saw  the  moisture  glisten  in 
the  eyes  of  Wheatley  and  trickle  down  his 
cheek.  But  there  was  nothing  strange  in 
that.  He  had  an  "Old  Folk"  of  his  own  at 
home  and  why  shouldn't  he  give  the  tribute 
of  a  tear  or  two  to  the  memory  of  that  dear 
old  mother  of  his  existence  ? 

After  the  program  came  champagne. 
Jokes  and  anecdotes  flew  around,  so  did  the 
bottle,  and  all  were  as  merry  as  good  com- 
pany and  good  wine  could  make  them. 

Now,  Wheatley,  though  fond  of  a  glass 
of  wine,  was  not  what  the  world  calls  "a 
drinking  man."  On  the  contrary  he  was 
inclined  to  be  abstemious ;  a  virtue  for  which 
he  took  no  credit,  because,  as  he  told  me,  his 
comfort  compelled  it.  "I  have  to  keep  my 
prudence  constantly  on  guard,"  he  said ;  "I 
may  take  a  glass,  or  even  two,  with  impu- 
nity, but  if  I  go  beyond  that,  the  indulgence 
will  throw  my  internal  mechanism  out  of 
gear,  and  tie  up  my  head  in  towels  and  ice- 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


215 


water  for  a  week."  When  an  accident  of 
this  nature  did  befall  him,  its  day-after  effect 
was  curious.  He  was  sure  that  his  days 
were  numbered  and  that  the  light  of  another 
one  would  find  him  pitching  headlong  into 
the  other  world. 

We  left  him  seated  at  the  table  with  the 
Buckleys  and  enjoying  an  event  which  was 
not  likely  to  happen  again.  Then  he 
thought  he  might  venture,  for  once,  to  give 
his  prudence  a  holiday.  And  he  did.  The 
next  morning  he  failed  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance, and  at  breakfast  time  I  went  to  look 
him  up.  Swung  in  a  hammock  at  the  back 
of  our  tent  lay  the  comedian,  with  the  Bible 
in  his  hand  and  a  wet  towel  around  his  head. 
As  I  had  my  doubts  about  his  appetite  being 
very  ravenous  for  his  breakfast,  I  thought 
I  would  sharpen  it  a  little : 

"William,  we  are  having  buckwheat  cakes 
for  breakfast;  get  up  and  eat  them  while 
they  're  hot." 

He  laid  the  Bible  down,  and  putting  both 
hands  to  his  head  squeezed  it  as  though  to 
prevent  its  splitting  apart.    Then  he  turned 


2l6  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

over  in  his  hammock  mumbling  to  himself : 
"Buckwheat  cakes  for  a  dying  man !" 

We  had  now  been  in  Nicaragua  for 
about  two  months.  Money  was  rolling  in 
on  us  and  we  began  to  figure  how  long  it 
would  take  to  be  up  to  our  neck  in  California 
"slugs."  But  alas  for  the  freaks  of  Fortune ! 
The  fickle  jade,  after  patting  us  so  kindly 
on  the  back,  turned  about,  gave  us  a  frown, 
and  prepared  to  kick  us  out  of  Paradise  with 
a  flea  in  our  ear  and  the  Calentura  in  our 
bones. 

And  this  is  the  way  she  did  it. 

The  old  Commodore  had  built  a  large 
steamer,  the  Northern  Light,  for  his  Cali- 
fornia line,  and  on  her  first  trip  to  Grey  town 
she  brought  a  cargo  of  nine  hundred  and 
sixty  passengers.  They  reached  Virgin  Bay 
and  waited  there  for  the  North  America, 
which  was  due  at  San  Juan  del  Sud,  to  take 
them  up  to  their  destination.  After  a  week 
of  weary  waiting,  word  came  that  the  vessel 
lay  a  wreck  on  the  coast,  some  three  hundred 
miles  above  San  Juan.  There  had  been 
great  rivalry  between  the  Panama  and  Nic- 


WILLIAM   WHEATLEY,  21/ 

aragua  companies,  and  the  delayed  passen- 
gers believed  that  the  captain  of  the  North 
America  had  been  bribed  to  wreck  his  vessel, 
as  the  disaster  happened  on  a  moonlight 
night  and  in  a  calm  sea.  Whether  bribery 
really  had  anything  to  do  with  it  was  never 
clearly  proven. 

In  the  meantime  the  Independence,  an- 
other of  the  Vanderbilt  steamers,  came 
down  from  San  Francisco,  but  her  captain, 
after  landing  his  own  passengers,  refused 
to  take  aboard  those  of  the  Northern  Light, 
saying  that  his  orders  were  to  await  for  the 
consort  of  his  boat,  the  Daniel  Webster. 
The  passengers  let  out  their  wrath  in  indig- 
nation meetings,  but  neither  wrath  nor  in- 
dignation could  budge  the  captain  of  the  In- 
dependence. Loud  and  sulphurous  were  the 
anathemas  thundered  at  the  head  of  the  Old 
Commodore,  but  as  he  was  too  far  away  to 
hear  them,  they  began  to  look  about  for  some 
way  out  of  their  trans-isthmian  pickle.  Those 
of  them  who  had  money  enough,  either  took 
passage  in  sailing  vessels  to  California  or  re- 
turned to  the  States.    But  there  were  others 


2l8  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

who  were  not  so  luckily  fixed.  They  had 
already  spent  their  surplus  cash  and  to  keep 
themselves  alive  were  forced  to  fall  back  on 
the  plantain.  The  diet  and  the  climate  to- 
gether caused  a  natural  result.  Sickness 
broke  out  among  them,  and  the  bones  of 
many  a  poor  fellow  who  had  left  his  home 
with  his  brain  brimming  with  dreams  of  a 
land  of  gold  he  was  never  to  see,  were  left 
to  bleach  and  crumble  under  the  glare  of  a 
tropical  sun. 

Bad  tidings  fly  fast,  and  the  wreck  of  the 
North  America  and  rumored  bribery  of  her 
captain  were  known  in  New  York  and  San 
Francisco  before  the  sailing  of  the  next 
steamers.  The  result  was  disastrous.  The 
bottom  of  the  Nicaragua  line  dropped  out 
completely,  as  did  also  the  bottom  of  our 
hotel  business.  The  latter  depended  solely 
on  the  support  of  the  to-and-fro  passengers 
between  New  York  and  San  Francisco,  and 
the  number  of  these  thenceforth  became  so 
insignificant  that  we  resolved  to  quit  both 
the  business  and  the  country,  whenever  the 
opportunity   came.     But    opportunities    are 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  2ig 

not  always  ready  to  come  when  they  are 
wanted.  For  ten  tedious  months  did  we  wait 
for  ours,  longing  and  fretting  for  the  time ; 
and  it  is  perhaps  Providential  that  we  didn't 
know  that  it  was  so  far  away  or  we  might 
have  hurried  it  up  by  cutting  our  way  out  of 
the  country  with  the  edge  of  a  razor. 

However,  "Hope  springs  eternal  in  the 
human  breast,"  and  it  is  a  most  fortunate 
thing  that  it  does,  for — if  we  are  to  believe 
Shakspere — "the  miserable  have  no  other 
medicine."  We  held  a  consultation  and  re- 
solved to  remain,  reasoning  ourselves  into 
the  belief  that  things  might  take  a  turn  for 
the  better,  and  propping  up  the  belief  with 
the  consolation  that  we  couldn't  get  away 
without  the  sacrifice  of  all  we  had  invested. 

Days,  weeks  and  months  dragged  their 
slow  way  along.  Then,  through  the  fog 
of  our  ill-luck  we  saw  the  approach  of 
that  day  which  is  so  dear  to  the  heart  of 
Uncle  Sam's  subjects.  Of  course,  I  mean 
"the  glorious  Fourth." 

Now,  my  partner  was  an  American  to  the 
core,    and    saturated    with    love    for    "Old 


220  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Glory"  and  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence. It  was  a  pet  doctrine  of  his  that  a  copy 
of  the  great  charter  of  our  freedom  should 
be  tied  about  the  neck  of  every  American 
male  babe  as  soon  as  born,  and  kept  there 
until  the  child  was  old  enough  to  vote ;  then 
laid  aside  to  be  handed  down  to  his  descend- 
ants as  an  heirloom. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "the  day — the 
day  of  all  days  will  soon  be  with  us,  and  I 
intend  to  celebrate  it  with  the  spirit  and  glory 
it  deserves." 

"Celebrate  it?  Where  is  your  glory  to 
come  from?  We  have  a  flag,  I  know,  but 
where  do  you  expect  to  get  your  fireworks 
and  the  et  ceteras,  and — " 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  my  boy.  I  am  aware 
we  have  no  fireworks,  but  they  wouldn't  be 
appreciated  here  if  we  had  them.  As  for  the 
ct  ceteras,  as  you  call  them,  have  n't  we  two 
double-barreled  guns  and  three  revolvers? 
Won't  these  make  noise  enough  ?" 

My  friend  was  never  at  a  loss  to  find  a 
substitute  for  anything  when  the  other  thing 
could  n't    be    found — a    faculty  which  the 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  221 

reader  will  discover  to  be  a  very  convenient 
one,  should  he  chance  to  spend  many  of  his 
days  in  the  Paradise  of  the  world. 

Now,  to  me  the  Fourth  of  July,  as  cele- 
brated at  home,  is  a  nuisance.  The  smell  of 
burnt  powder  hasn't  the  same  fragrance  to 
the  man  of  twenty-five  that  it  has  to  the  boy 
of  ten;  nor  does  the  racket  of  crackers  and 
the  bang  of  pistols  have  the  same  invigo- 
rating effect  upon  his  nerves. 

But  circumstances  alter  cases,  and,  some- 
times, very  materially.  We  were  not  at 
home.  We  were  in  a  foreign  land,  and  our 
Yankee  blood  was  now  ready  to  gallop 
through  its  veins  at  the  mere  thought  of  the 
day  at  which  we  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
turning  up  our  nose  and  running  away  from 
when  at  home.  Why,  we  could  have  hugged 
the  small  boy  with  his  pack  of  noisy  crackers, 
had  he  been  about ;  but  he  was  n't,  so  we  had 
to  get  along  without  him. 

My  friend's  program  for  "the  day  we 
celebrate"  was  a  success,  considering  the 
slim  resources  at  his  beck.  He  made  the 
oration,  and  he  made  it  an  effective  one. 


222  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

When  he  reached  the  end  he  dovetailed  it  so 
neatly  with  the  Declaration  that  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  discover  the  joint.  His  delivery 
of  the  pregnant  sentences  of  the  latter  was 
quiet  yet  forcible,  and  with  the  tact  of 
a  true  dramatic  artist  he  held  his  climax  in 
reserve.  When  he  came  to  the  closing  sen- 
tence, he  snatched  a  flag  gracefully  from  a 
hidden  recess  and  raised  his  arms  aloft,  wav- 
ing the  symbol  over  an  ideal  conclave  of  our 
revolutionary  sires,  whom  he  saw,  in  his 
mind's  eye,  pledging  for  us  and  our  posterity 
their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred 
honor. 

This  was  the  cue  for  Eusebio  and  Loren- 
zo, our  cook,  whom  Wheatley  had  stationed 
outside  the  tent,  the  one  with  the  revolvers, 
the  other  with  the  double-barreled  guns. 
Three  or  four  volleys  were  fired  and  then 
came  the  next  thing  on  the  program :  "Hail 
Columbia,"  followed  by  the  "Star  Spangled 
Banner." 

Directly  after  the  firing  of  the  volleys 
Wheatley  mounted  the  top  of  a  barrel  and 
spoke : 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  223 

"Friends  and  Fellow  Citizens:  I  did  in- 
tend that  you  should  sing  these  glorious  old 
tunes,  but  as  you,  like  myself,  may  not  be 
well  posted  in  the  art  of  singing,  I  will  not 
insist  on  your  trying  it.  But  I  do  insist  on 
your  making  a  noise  of  some  kind.  It 
doesn't  matter  about  the  tune  so  you  get 
the  words  straight.  Sentiment,  not  music, 
is  what  we  are  here  for  to-day.  Now,  fol- 
low me." 

As  my  partner  had  said,  singing  was  not 
exactly  in  his  line,  and  I  don't  recall  that  he 
ever  attempted  it  before  or  after  that  event. 
To  follow  him,  therefore,  was  not  an  easy 
task.  In  the  crowd  of  commemorators 
which,  exclusive  of  the  natives,  numbered 
about  twenty-five  or  thirty,  were  a  few  who 
had  some  recollection  of  the  words,  but  each 
had  his  own  idea  about  the  rotation  of  the 
stanzas.  The  result  of  this,  of  course,  "play- 
ed Hail  Columbia"  with  the  sentiment. 

One  more  feature  remained  on  the  pro- 
gram :  "Yankee  Doodle  by  a  musical  box 
kindly  loaned  by  the  Transit  Company  for 
this  occasion  only." 


224  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

The  box  was  a  large  and  an  expensive  one, 
and  perhaps  would  have  performed  its  part 
in  a  creditable  maner,  if  its  owner  had  been 
present  to  keep  its  music  under  control.  It 
had  a  long  repertoire  consisting  of  a  dozen 
or  more  operatic  airs  together  with  a  pro- 
miscuous assortment  of  jigs  and  hornpipes, 
and  it  insisted  upon  going  through  these  be- 
fore obliging  us  with  "Yankee  Doodle"  that 
lay  at  the  bottom. 

My  partner  was  annoyed  at  this  hitch  in 
his  program,  and  again  mounted  his  barrel. 

"Fellow  Citizens,  we  will  now  take  an  in- 
termission of  half  an  hour  for  refreshments, 
and  also  to  give  that  box  a  chance  to  have  its 
way.  There  's  no  particular  hurry ;  we  can 
wait.  When  it  gets  through  with  its  own 
program  maybe  it  will  consent  to  go  on 
with  ours.  A  Fourth  of  July  without  a 
'Yankee  Doodle'  would  indeed  be  like  the 
play  of  'Hamlet'  with  the  melancholy  Dane 
left  out.     Please  step  this  way,  gentlemen." 

The  crowd  followed  him  to  the  rear  of  the 
tent,  and  was  soon  wrapped  in  convivial  for- 
get fulness  of  the  incorrigible  box,  which  was 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


225 


afterwards  brought  in  and  placed  upon  the 
table.  Then,  as  if  to  atone  for  its  previous 
stubbornness,  it  began  its  "Yankee  Doodle" 
and  kept  up  a  repetition  of  it,  until,  exhaust- 
ed of  its  wind,  the  strains  dragged  lazily 
along  and  finally  ceased. 

The  celebration  was  now  over,  and  the 
crowd,  after  a  vote  of  thanks,  made  straight 
their  way  homeward — or  as  straight  as  cir- 
cumstances would  permit. 

And  thus  ended  our  Fourth  in  the  Para- 
dise of  the  world. 

I  will  not  tire  the  reader  with  a  recital  of 
the  many  fruitless  efforts  we  made  to  sell  out 
and  get  away.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  at  the 
end  of  our  twelfth  month  I  suggested  to 
Wheatley  that  we  put  up  our  hotel  and  its 
contents  at  auction. 

"Auction  ?     Where  's   your    auctioneer  ?" 

"Here,"  I  replied. 

"You?  As  the  buyers  will  be  mostly 
Greasers,  how  do  you  expect  to  make  them 
understand  what  you  are  talking  about?" 

"I  '11  manage  that.  If  they  but  under- 
stand what  they  want,  I  know  enough  of 


226  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

their  lingo  to  make  them  understand  that  if 
they  expect  to  get  what  they  want,  they  must 
pay  more  for  it  than  anybody  else." 

The  day  came  and  we  had  our  sale.  As 
the  Transit  route  was  dead  beyond  the  hope 
of  resurrection,  nobody  wanted  the  hotel ; 
and  the  sum  realized  from  the  contents  was 
not  startlingly  large,  as  they  consisted  of 
cracked  crockery,  dilapidated  hammocks  and 
bad  whiskey.  The  crockery,  however, 
brought  bigger  prices  than  similar  articles, 
minus  the  cracks,  could  be  bought  for  in 
New  York. 

At  the  end  of  the  sale  we  had  a  few  hun- 
dred dollars,  and  now  resolved  to  leave  the 
place  and  the  country.  But  there  was  still 
a  stumbling  block  in  the  way.  During  our 
stay  we  had  been  dealing  with  a  Greytown 
merchant  named  Ferguson,  from  whom  we 
had  purchased  flour  and  other  stuff  needed 
by  our  hotel,  and  who  claimed  there  was  a 
balance  due  him  of  $400.  This  was  for 
goods  we  had  never  received,  nor  did  we 
ever  get  vouchers  to  show  they  had  been 
sent.     Under  these  circumstances  Wheatley 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  227 

said  he  didn't  feel  like  paying  the  bill,  more 
especially  as  it  would  take  the  bulk  of  what 
we  had  realized  on  our  sale  to  do  it. 

"Well,  William,"  I  said,  "Ferguson  is  a 
man  of  influence  in  Greytown,  and  unless 
that  bill  is  settled  in  some  way,  there  is  a 
likelihood  of  his  holding  on  to  our  precious 
bodies  until  it  is." 

"Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  suppose  we  send 
for  him  and  give  him  a  note  payable  in  three 
months  after  date.  A  bit  of  paper  of  that 
kind  will  be  of  less  use  to  us  than  'our  pre- 
cious bodies'  and  may  be  of  more  use  to 
him." 

"Very  good;  but  if  he  refuses  to  take  the 
bit  of  paper — what  then?" 

"My  dear  boy,  never  anticipate  Trouble. 
Let  her  chase  you,  if  she  will,  but  don't  run 
to  meet  her.  I  think  Ferguson  would  much 
rather  have  the  note  than  be  bothered  with 
the  care  of  our  bodies.  Anyway,  we  will 
try  him." 

So  we  sent  for  Ferguson,  gave  him  the 

$400  note  drawn  up  on  the  stamped  paper 

of  the  country,  and  the  next  morning  were 
16 


228  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

on  our  way  across  the  lake  and  down  the 
river  to  take  passage  on  the  Prometheus  for 
New  York. 

When  we  arrived  at  Greytown  the  steamer 
was  not  there,  nor  did  she  make  her  appear- 
ance for  a  week.  During  this  time  we  stop- 
ped at  the  town's  best  hotel — a  two-story 
frame  building,  the  second  floor  of  which 
was  one  large  room,  about  thirty  feet  square, 
containing  twelve  cots.  The  first  night, 
Wheatley  and  myself  used  two  of  them,  the 
remaining  ten  being  occupied  by  the  Calen- 
tura's  victims.  The  second  night  I  was  the 
only  well  man  in  the  room,  Wheatley  having 
added  another  to  the  sick  list. 

'T  was  on  our  seventh  day  that  the  Prome- 
theus steamed  into  the  harbor,  and  I  will 
leave  to  the  reader's  imagination  the  delight 
with  which  we  both  stepped  upon  her  deck 
to  bid  good-bye  forever  to  the  Paradise  of 
the  world.  Mal-de-mer  had  no  terrors  for 
us  now;  they  had  all  been  swallowed  up  in 
the  capacious  maw  of  those  we  were  about 
to  leave  behind. 

The  Calentura  clung  to  Wheatley  during 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


229 


the  entire  voyage  to  New  York  and  for  weeks 
after  he  reached  there.  As  for  myself,  I 
took  up  my  quarters  in  the  city  at  French's 
Hotel,  making  daily  visits  to  the  home  of  my 
friend,  who  was  then  living  with  his  mother 
and  sister  in  22nd  street. 

One  day  while  I  was  crossing  the  City 
Hall  Park,  my  head  began  to  reel  and  my 
legs  to  bend  and  wabble  after  the  fashion 
that  sometimes  follows  a  too  liberal  use  of 
the  bottle.  The  reader,  however,  must  n't 
jump  at  that  conclusion.  The  bottle,  for 
once,  was  innocent.  The  Calentura  was  the 
culprit,  and  its  seeds,  which  had  been  planted 
in  me  at  Greytown,  were  now  sprouting  with 
alarming  vigor.  I  never  could  have  wabbled 
over  the  forty  or  fifty  yards  of  pavement 
that  lay  between  me  and  the  door  of  my  ho- 
tel without  the  help  of  a  good  Samaritan 
who  saw  my  predicament  and  held  me  on  my 
feet.  He  helped  me  into  the  hotel  and  up  to 
my  room  where  I  lay  alone  for  four  days, 
with  the  fiery  fever  burning  into  my  brain 
and  filling  it  with  phantasmal  pictures  of  the 
land  of  orange  blossoms.     Fortunately  for 


230  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

me,  Wheatley's  mother  missed  my  daily 
visits,  came  herself  with  a  cab  and  took  me 
to  her  home. 

In  adjoining  rooms  lay  Wheatley  and  my- 
self. Gradually  my  partner  began  to  conva- 
lesce, while  I  was  going  step  by  step  the 
other  way.  How  far  I  went  the  other  way 
the  reader  can  judge.  My  head  was  fasten- 
ed to  my  pillow  as  firmly  as  if  it  were  chain- 
ed there.  Then,  through  some  strange 
whim,  or  perhaps  demand,  of  Nature,  I 
craved  a  spoonful  of  what,  in  those  days, 
was  a  much-be-puffed  liquor — "Schiedam 
Schnapps;"  but  Mrs.  Wheatley,  before  she 
gave  it,  deemed  it  safer  to  ask  the  doctor's 
permission.  She  had  no  trouble  in  getting 
it :  "Let  him  have  whatever  he  wants ;  it  can 
make  no  difference  now." 

This  was  not  a  flattering  diagnosis,  but  the 
doctor  was  mistaken.  It  did  make  a  differ- 
ence and  a  big  one.  A  single  teaspoonful  of 
that  Schiedam  so  astonished  the  Calentura 
that  it  loosened  its  grip.  At  the  second  tea- 
spoonful,  it  let  go  altogether,  and  the  third 
day  I  was  out  of  bed  and  down  stairs.     By 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  23 1 

the  aid  of  ten  more  teaspoonfuls  and  ten 
more  days,  I  gathered  enough  strength  to 
start  for  and  reach  my  home  in  that  Quaker 
settlement  which  lies  dozing  on  the  banks  of 
the  Delaware  and  which  the  sarcastic  Goth- 
amites  call  "The  City  of  Sleepiness  and 
Brotherly  Love." 

Apropos  of  the  Schnapps,  I  will  relieve 
the  reader  of  his  suspicion — if  he  has  any — 
that  what  I  have  written  is  an  advertisement 
for  its  proprietor.  The  latter,  I  believe,  has 
gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  and  needs  no 
puffery.  As  for  his  Schnapps,  they  too, 
for  aught  I  know,  may  have  been  dead 
enough  to  follow  him  and  take  their  place 
among  the  spirits  of  the  other  world. 

After  Wheatley  had  entirely  recovered  he 
determined  to  return  to  the  stage,  and  did  so, 
taking  the  management  of  Ford's  Theatre 
in  Baltimore.  This  was  in  1851.  The  fol- 
lowing year  he  came  to  Philadelphia  as  the 
stage  manager  for  Thomas  J.  Hemphill, 
who  was  then  the  lessee  of  the  Arch.  When 
the  season  expired  he  leased  the  Arch  with 
John  Drew   (the  elder)   as  co-partner,  and 


232  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

opened  it  on  the  night  of  August  20th,  1853. 
The  opening  was  auspicious.  Crowded 
houses  followed  each  other  with  regularity 
and  it  was  evident  that  "Wheatley  and 
Drew's  Arch  St.  Theatre"  and  its  "Star 
Company"  were  already  ensconced  in  the 
heart  of  the  theatre-going  public. 

Nearly  three  years  had  passed  since  we 
left  Nicaragua,  and  during  that  time  neither 
Wheatley  nor  myself  had  given  a  thought  to 
that  Greytown  note.  I  had  accepted  a  posi- 
tion in  the  box  office  of  the  Arch  and  was 
busily  employed  in  entering  up  the  receipts 
of  the  night  before,  when  I  was  interrupted 
by  an  inquiry  at  the  window :  "Where's 
Wheatley?"  I  looked  at  the  man  whose  face 
seemed  familiar  and  yet  I  was  in  doubt.  His 
features  were  those  of  our  friend  Ferguson 
of  Greytown,  but  that  individual  when  last 
T  saw  him  weighed  at  least  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  while  the  man  before  me 
would  have  had  some  trouble  to  tip  the  scales 
at  half  that  weight.  His  coat  hung  flabbily 
on  his  shoulders,  touching  nowhere  else,  and 
could  have  been  buttoned  on  his  back. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  233 

"Mr.  Wheatley  is  not  in  at  present.  But 
pardon  me,"  I  said,  "have  n't  I  met  you  be- 
fore? Aren't  you  Mr.  Ferguson  of  Grey- 
town?    I  thought  you  were  dead." 

"You  are  right  about  my  name,  but  not 
quite  right  about  my  being  dead ;  although  I 
would  have  been  very  dead  had  I  not  got 
out  of  that  hole  when  I  did.  How  long  be- 
fore Wheatley  will  be  in  ?" 

"I  expect  him  shortly,"  I  replied,  and  then 
he  left  me  saying  he  would  call  again. 

When  Wheatley  came  in  I  said  to  him: 
"William,  there  has  been  a  gentleman  here 
to  see  you,  and  one  that  probably  you  are  not 
anxious  to  meet." 

"Not  anxious  to  meet?  I  know  of  none 
that  I  wish  to  avoid.    Who  is  he  ?" 

"Ferguson,  of  Greytown." 

Wheatley  threw  up  both  hands,  as  if  he 
had  been  hit  below  the  belt  with  a  Minie 
ball.     "Great  God!    That  note!" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  you  '11  have  to  pay  it. 
A  note  is  a  contract,  and  a  contract,  if  it  is 
good  where  made,  is  good  the  world  over." 

"I  '11  not  pay  a  cent  of  it.     We  received 


234  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

nothing  for  it,  and  I  '11  plead  'no  considera- 
tion.' " 

"That  will  be  hard  to  do,  with  any  suc- 
cess, upon  a  promissory  note  that  bears  on 
its  face  'value  received.'  " 

"Then  I  '11  plead  'duress.'  " 

"That,  too,  would  probably  be  as  futile. 
The  proposition  to  give  the  note  came  vol- 
untarily from  ourselves.  We  were  entirely 
too  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  country,  and  the 
mistake  we  made  was  in  not  disputing  the 
bill  entirely:  then,  if  our  liberty  to  leave  was 
restrained,  your  plea  of  'duress'  would  have 
a  leg  or  two  to  stand  on.  It  is  true  that  we 
imagined  we  would  be  held  in  limbo  unless 
the  bill  was  settled  in  some  way ;  but  'imag- 
inary duress,'  in  the  scales  of  a  court  of 
justice,  would  hardly  'weigh  the  estimation 
of  a  hair.'  " 

"Well,  my  boy,  your  exposition  of  the  law 
may  be  sound,  yet  nevertheless  I  shall  retain 
counsel  and  fight  this  note  to  the  bitter  end." 

He  did  fight  it,  and  the  "bitter  end"  turn- 
ed out  no  sweeter  than  T  thought.  With  all 
the    eel-like    squirmings    of  a  Philadelphia 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  235 

lawyer  at  his  back,  he  was  forced  to  pay  the 
note,  with  nearly  three  years'  interest. 

The  Old  Arch  has  had  both  ups  and  downs 
in  its  day.  When  Wheatley  and  Drew  took 
hold  of  it,  the  stock,  of  which  there  were 
one  hundred  and  thirty-four  shares,  was 
selling  at  $225  and  gradually  rose  to  $400. 
Their  capable  management  soon  lifted  the 
reputation  of  the  theatre  from  out  the  mud, 
and  dainty  Fashion,  that  had  for  years  avoid- 
ed it  as  a  pest  house,  now  condescended  to 
become  its  regular  patron. 

During  Wheatley's  connection  with  the 
Arch  it  was  under  the  control  of  four  differ- 
ent lesseeships:  Thomas  J.  Hemphill's, 
Wheatley  &  Drew's,  Wheatley  &  Clarke's, 
and  that  of  Wheatley  alone.  He  retired 
from  its  management  in  June,  1861,  and  then 
leased  the  "Continental,"  which  stood  on 
the  site  where  Gilmore's  "Auditorium"  now 
stands.  He  had  long  contemplated  the  pro- 
duction of  Shakspere's  "Tempest"  as  a  spec- 
tacular piece,  and  this  was  his  chief  motive 
for  leasing  the  theatre.  The  play  was  pro- 
duced, and  during  its  run  nine  of  the  ballet 


236  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

girls,  including  the  four  Gale  sisters,  were 
burned  to  death.  The  house  was  crowded  on 
that  occasion  with  twenty-five  hundred  peo- 
ple, and  it  was  Wheatley's  presence  of  mind 
that  prevented  a  panic  and  the  loss  of,  per- 
haps, hundreds  of  lives.  The  theatre  at  that 
time  extended  back  to  Sansom  street,  and 
the  dressing  room  of  the  ballet  was  on  the 
second  floor  and  faced  that  street. 

On  the  night  in  question,  the  curtain  had 
risen  on  the  "Ship  scene,"  in  the  first  act. 
Wheatley,  dressed  as  Prospero,  was  stand- 
ing at  the  first  entrance,  with  the  prompt- 
book in  his  hand,  and  watching  the  men 
working  the  sea  cloth,  which  covered  the  en- 
tire stage.  The  mirrors,  used  in  the  fourth 
act  to  represent  a  lake,  were  built  on  a  slop- 
ing frame  (like  that  of  a  hot-bed)  and  this 
— for  the  convenience  of  handling — was  di- 
vided into  four  sections  which  now  stood 
between  or  back  of  the  wings. 

The  play  commenced.  The  little  ship  be- 
gan to  rock  and  toss  upon  the  mimic  waves ; 
the  lycopodium  flashed ;  the  thunder  rolled 
and  rattled  in  a  way  that  Jove  himself  might 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  237 

have  been  jealous  of;  the  audience  cheered 
and  clapped  and  stamped,  and  then  above 
the  din  of  all  there  came  a  piercing  shriek, 
followed  by  a  crash  of  glass;  and  then  an 
object,  that  looked  like  a  ball  of  fire,  rolled 
from  the  wings  and  out  upon  the  stage.  Be- 
fore the  audience  had  time  to  discover  what 
the  object  was,  the  men  at  the  wings  had 
wrapped  the  sea  cloth  round  it,  and  Wheat- 
ley  rang  down  the  curtain.  His  first  thought 
was  to  save  the  twenty-five  hundred  people 
from  the  danger  of  a  panic.  He  did  not  stop 
to  know  all  that  he  was  soon  to  know.  The 
shriek,  the  crash  of  glass,  and  the  ball  of 
fire  told  him  too  plainly  that  if  he  possessed 
any  coolness  and  presence  of  mind,  now  was 
the  time  to  use  them.  Stepping  before  the 
curtain,  he  walked  leisurely  down  to  the 
footlights  and  spoke : 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen :  There  has  been 
an  accident  which  will  keep  the  curtain  down 
for  a  few  minutes,  after  which  we  will  pro- 
ceed with  the  play."  Then,  with  a  motion 
to  the  orchestra  to  start  an  overture,  he 
walked  back  of  the  curtain.     Here  his  eyes 


238  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

met  a  sight  liable  to  make  the  stoutest  heart 
to  quail,  and  the  steadiest  mind  to  lose  its 
equilibrium — nine  girls,  pacing  between  the 
wings,  wringing  their  hands  in  agony,  with 
their  clothes  burned  off  them,  and  their 
scorched  flesh  hanging  in  ribbons  from  their 
limbs  and  faces. 

Wheatley  paused  but  a  moment  to  say  to 
the  call  boy :  "Go  front  and  tell  Mr.  Whit- 
ton  that  I  shall  dismiss  the  audience,  and  to 
have  the  doors  wide  open."  Then  picking 
up  Prospero's  wand,  he  again  stepped  before 
the  curtain.  There  was  no  sign  of  emotion 
in  his  manner;  no  trace  of  tremor  in  his 
voice : 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen  : — The  accident 
to  which  I  referred  will  interfere  with  our 
performance  more  than  I  thought.  The 
actors  are  so  much  excited  over  it  that  it 
will  be  impossible  to  go  on  with  the  play. 
Please  go  out." 

They  went  out,  but  took  their  own  time 
in  doing  it,  which  they  scarcely  would  have 
done  had  they  known  that  the  back  of  the 
theatre  was  on  fire.    This,  however,  they  did 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  239 

not  know  until  they  were  outside ;  and  when 
the  noise  of  the  engines  and  the  laying  of 
hose  told  them  the  story  there  was  many  an 
mward  thank  to  Heaven,  and  many  an  out- 
ward expression  of  praise  for  the  man  whose 
coolness  had  saved  them  the  cost  of  a  crush- 
ed limb,  if  not  the  cost  of  their  life. 

The  accident  happened  in  this  way.  The 
gas  lights  in  the  dressing-room  were  not  en- 
closed with  wire  screens,  as  is  now  the  cus- 
tom, and  the  dress  of  one  of  the  girls  took 
fire  by  coming  in  contact  with  them.  Her 
companions  crowded  around  her  to  smother 
it,  and  in  a  few  minutes  all  were  ablaze. 
There  was  plenty  of  combustible  matter  in 
the  room,  and  this  also  caught  the  flames, 
carrying  them  into  the  carpenter  shop  above, 
and  setting  fire  to  the  theatre.  Prompt  work 
of  the  firemen,  however,  saved  it  from  de- 
struction. 

The  burned  girls  were  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital. They  lingered  there  for  a  little  while, 
then,  one  by  one,  their  lives  flickered  out, 
and  the  body  of  each  was  carried  to  its  grave 
from  the  home  of  Wheatley. 


240  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Having  given  an  instance  of  my  friend's 
presence  of  mind,  suppose  I  give  another  to 
show  how  he  sometimes  suffered  from  its 
absence.  Walking  together  one  day  we  met 
a  male  acquaintance  of  his,  but  a  stranger  to 
myself.  After  a  moment's  conversation  with 
him,  my  companion  stopped  the  talk  in  or- 
der to  introduce  me :  "Mr.  Brown,  it  gives 
me  the  greatest  of  pleasure  to  introduce  to 
you  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world. 
You  may  have  heard  me  speak  of  him." 
Then  he  paused  and  whispered  in  my  ear : 
"What  the  deuce  is  your  name,  anyhow?" 

I  enlightened  him,  but  the  incident  set  me 
to  wondering  whether  a  forgetfulness,  dar- 
ing enough  to  drive  my  name  from  his  mem- 
ory, would  n't  some  day  imperil  the  recol- 
lection of  his  own. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  Wheatley's  lease  of  the 
Continental.  Tt  was  merely  a  temporary 
one,  and  when  it  was  about  to  expire  he 
made  a  proposition  to  the  owner,  E.  P. 
Christy,  of  New  York,  for  a  renewal  at  a  re- 
duced rent.  While  he  was  waiting  for  a 
reply  he  received  a  telegram  from  Jarrett, 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY,  24 1 

Davenport  and  Wallack  that  they  were  about 
to  take  Niblo's  Garden  for  three  months, 
and  asking  if  he  would  n't  join  them  in 
the  venture.  Before  he  answered  the  tele- 
gram he  sent  another  to  Christy:  "Will 
you  accept  my  offer?  Telegraph  at  once, 
yes  or  no."  The  answer  that  came  back  was 
"No." 

It  takes  but  small  things,  sometimes,  to 
make  or  mar  a  man's  fortune,  and  upon  that 
little  "No"  hung  the  one  that  Wheatley  had 
struggled  for  so  long,  and  which  was  soon 
to  drop  within  his  grasp. 

Re-engaging  such  members  of  his  Con- 
tinental Company  as  he  thought  would  be 
required  for  Niblo's,  he  took  them  with  him 
to  New  York,  and  the  theatre  was  opened. 
Its  success,  however,  did  n't  meet  the  ex- 
pectation of  Jarrett,  Davenport  and  Wal- 
lack. Before  the  end  of  the  three  months 
they  became  discouraged,  and  backed  out, 
leaving  Wheatley  the  sole  lessee.  John  Col- 
lins, the  Irish  comedian,  had  been  engaged  for 
two  weeks,  and  it  was  during  his  first  week 
that  the  dissolution  of  partnership  took  place. 


242  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

From  that  time  the  tide  of  ill-luck  began  to 
ebb.  Collins'  second  week  was  a  profitable 
one,  and  this  was  followed  by  the  engage- 
ment of  Edwin  Forrest — an  engagement,  by 
the  way,  that  was  not  clinched  without  a 
little  diplomacy  on  the  part  of  Wheatley. 
Forrest  was  not  the  man  to  forgive  and  for- 
get an  injury,  even  though  it  were  a  fancied 
one,  and  he  had  long  labored  under  the  im- 
pression that  his  stage  reputation  had  been 
injured  by  "this  man  Wheatley" — as  he 
called  him — and  in  a  manner  that  would 
brook  no  forgiveness.  The  manner  of  the 
mjury  was  this :  When  Wheatley  was 
lessee  of  the  Arch  he  chanced  to  stand  in 
need  of  some  play  that  would  prove  attrac- 
tive, and  he  pitched  upon  "Jack  Cade," 
bringing  it  out  with  E.  L.  Davenport  in  the 
title  role.  But  before  he  did  so,  and  through 
fear  of  trampling  on  the  property  of  Forrest, 
he  wrote  to  the  author  of  the  play,  Mayor 
Conrad,  asking  what  rights,  if  any,  the  great 
tragedian  had  in  "Jack  Cade."  Conrad's 
answer  was :  "No  rights  at  all.  You  are  at 
liberty  to  play  the  piece  if  you  choose." 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  243 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  this  unpar- 
donable damage  had  been  done  to  Forrest's 
stage  reputation,  and  still  the  recollection  of 
it  flourished  in  his  breast.  But  there  was 
something  else  that  was  flourishing  in  that 
broad  breast  of  his — the  recollection  of  his 
pocket.  He  was  anxious  to  play  an  engage- 
ment in  New  York  city,  and  there  was  no 
theatre  open  to  him  that  his  pride  and  ambi- 
tion would  permit  him  to  play  in,  save 
Niblo's.  Wheatley  was  not  only  willing,  but 
most  desirous  to  have  him,  and  finally  the 
mutual  friends  of  both  put  their  heads  to- 
gether, a  reconciliation  followed,  and  the 
engagement  was  consummated. 

This  was  the  inauguration  of  the  extrava- 
gant rates  paid  to  successful  stars.  Forrest's 
terms,  previous  to  that  time,  were  two  hun- 
dred dollars  a  night,  and  a  half-clear  benefit 
each  week.  He  asked  no  more  and  would 
take  no  less.  But  Wheatley,  when  he  found 
the  whole  weight  of  Niblo's  management  on 
his  shoulders,  grew  cautious.  He  thought 
there    was    a    risk  in  paying  certainties  to 

stars,  and  determined  to  avoid  it  if  he  could, 
17 


244  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

whatever  might  be  their  drawing  capacity. 
Therefore  he  proposed  to  Forrest  to  share 
the  receipts  after  one  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars, and  to  give  him  a  half-clear  benefit 
each  week;  a  proposition  which  the  trage- 
dian grudgingly  accepted. 

Wheatley  paid  through  the  nose  for  his 
caution.  Had  he  given  Forrest  his  twelve 
hundred  dollars  a  week,  the  difference  be- 
tween that  and  the  sum  he  actually  paid 
him,  which  averaged  nearly  three  thousand 
per  week,  would  have  gone  into  his  own 
pocket.  However,  he  was  satisfied  with  his 
policy,  and  so  much  so,  that  he  offered  Bar- 
ney Williams — whose  engagement  fol- 
lowed Forrest's — the  same  terms,  and  with 
nearly  the  same  result. 

There  seemed  no  doubt  now  about  the 
future  success  of  Niblo's.  Wheatley  renew- 
ed his  lease  at  a  rent  of  $15,000  a  year,  which 
was  to  be  paid  in  forty  weekly  sums  of  $375 
each.  The  next  year  his  rent  was  raised  to 
$18,000,  and  the  following  year  to  $20,000. 
All  of  his  ventures  proved  profitable,  save 
one — the   production    of    "Faust  and  Mar- 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


245 


gtierite."  The  piece  was  put  on  the  stage 
with  care  and  expense,  with  J.  B'.  Roberts 
in  the  character  of  Mephistopheles.  It  was 
a  failure,  and,  as  I  have  said,  the  only  one 
to  interrupt  the  train  of  Niblo's  success. 

And  now  I  will  step  over  a  year  or  two, 
and  come  to  1866 — a  year  which  Fate  had 
decreed  should  brim  with  luck  for  Wheatley, 
as  well  as  for  a  pair  of  other  managers, 
equally  well  known  in  the  theatrical  world. 
In  the  latter  part  of  May  or  the  early  part  of 
June — I  have  forgotten  which — of  that 
year,  Jarrett  and  Palmer  returned  from  Eu- 
rope, whither  they  had  gone  for  the  purpose 
of  seeking  some  stage  novelty  with  which 
to  open  the  coming  season  in  New  York. 
They  had  found  their  novelty,  and  now  fixed 
their  eye  on  Niblo's  as  the  theatre  best  adapt- 
ed for  its  exhibition.  They  lost  no  time  in 
calling  on  Wheatley,  and  in  the  interview 
that  followed,  Jarrett  said :  "William,  we 
have  brought  something  with  us  which  I 
think  is  sure  to  set  the  city  wild;  and  we 
need  only  your  co-operation  to  do  it." 

"What  is  the  something?" 


246  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"A  Grand  Ballet — and  a  grander  one 
than  was  ever  seen  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic.   Now,  we  will  make  you  a  proposal." 

"Go  ahead ;  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  this:  That  you  take  Mr.  Palmer 
and  myself  in  with  you,  as  partners  in  the 
management  of  Niblo's,  to  bring  out  on  its 
stage  a  spectacular  play,  in  which  we  can  in- 
troduce our  Ballet.  The  dresses — and  we 
have  a  multitude  of  them — were  made  in 
Paris.  They  are  of  the  most  gorgeous  de- 
scription, and  alone  will  be  a  feature  strong 
enough  to  make  the  piece,  whatever  it  may 
be,  a  big  success." 

Wheatley  accepted  their  proposal  at  once, 
an  agreement  was  signed,  and  the  partner- 
ship consummated. 

Then  came  the  question:  "What  shall 
the  piece  be?" 

"Have  you  thought  of  any?"  asked 
Wheatley. 

"Yes,  the  'Naiad  Queen.'  " 

"Well,  that  has  an  advantage  in  its  room 
for  scenic  effects;  but  there  's  one  objection 
to  it.    Should  we  make  a  success  of  it,  every 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


247 


concert  saloon  in  New  York  will  be  playing 
the  'Naiad  Queen.'  " 

"Well,"  said  Jarrett,  "suppose  we  wait  a 
day  or  two.     Something  else  may  turn  up." 

"Something  else"  did  turn  up.  Charles 
M.  Barras,  a  New  York  actor,  had  written  a 
play  which  he  called  "The  Black  Crook." 
He  had  carried  it  around  in  his  pocket  for 
months,  hoping  and  vainly  striving  to  get 
some  manager  bold  enough  to  take  hold  of  it. 
Whethei-  he  had  heard  of  the  quandary  the 
managers  of  Niblo's  were  in,  I  know  not; 
it  is  more  than  likely  that  he  had,  else  he 
would  not  have  been  so  independent  about 
his  play,  nor  so  stiff  about  its  price.  How- 
ever, be  that  as  it  may,  he  brought  the  manu- 
script to  Wheatley,  who  saw  at  once  that  it 
was  the  very  thing  he  needed. 

"What  do  you  want  for  your  piece,  Mr. 
Barras?" 

"Two  thousand  dollars  for  the  sole  right 
to  play  the  piece  in  New  York  city.  You 
may  think  the  terms  exorbitant,  but  I  know 
my  play  is  worth  it.  At  all  events  I  will  ac- 
cept no  less." 


248  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Well,  Mr.  Barras,  I  will  consult  with 
Jarrett  and  Palmer,  and  let  you  know 
whether  or  not  we  will  accept  your  play." 

"There  is  another  condition  I  must  insist 
on,  Mr.  Wheatley,  should  you  accept  the 
piece." 

"What  is  that?" 

"After  the  play  is  produced  there  must  be 
no  intermission  in  the  run  of  it;  otherwise 
the  contract  will  be  at  an  end." 

Now,  the  Black  Crook  was  not  a  play 
of  much  literary  merit.  It  had  no  plot  to 
speak  of,  and  but  little  originality,  being 
nothing  more  than  a  conglomeration  of  the 
"Naiad  Queen,"  "Lurline,"  "Undine,"  and 
a  few  other  spectacular  chestnuts.  But  lit- 
erary merit  was  not  what  Wheatley  was 
looking  for.  He  wanted  a  piece  with  op- 
j  portunities  for  scenic  display,  and  the  Black 
Crook  was  full  of  them.  He  wanted  a 
piece  the  title  of  which  would  catch  the  eye 
and  ear  with  its  novelty,  and  he  thought  the 
"Black  Crook"  would  do  both.  In  fact,  he 
believed  the  title,  alone,  worth  all  that  Bar- 
ras demanded  for  the  right  to  play  the  piece. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  249 

Whether  Jarrett  and  Palmer  would  have 
the  same  high  opinion  of  it  was  another 
question.  Wheatley  showed  them  the  manu- 
script, but  when  he  told  them  the  price  that 
Barras  asked  for  it,  they  thought  the  man 
must  be  crazy. 

"Two  thousand  dollars?  Why,  we  can 
get  Daly  to  write  us  a  play  for  one- fourth  of 
that  sum,  and  one  we  can  own  outright." 

"Perhaps  you  can,"  said  Wheatley,  "but 
it  won't  be  the  Black  Crook.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  would  be  difficult,  if  not  im- 
possible, to  obtain  a  play,  at  any  price,  so 
well  fitted  to  our  purpose.  However,  we 
will  discuss  the  matter  again  to-morrow. 
After  a  night's  sleep  over  it,  you  may  open 
your  eyes  to  look  at  it  as  I  do." 

The  night's  sleep  had  the  desired  effect. 
The  next  day  a  contract  was  drawn  up  and  I 
signed,  by  the  terms  of  which  Wheatley, 
Jarrett  and  Palmer  agreed  to  pay  Chas.  M. 
Barras  the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars,  in 
consideration  of  which  they  were  to  have  the 
sole  right  to  play  the  Black  Crook  in  New 
York  city,  and  as  long  as  they  liked — pro-     I 


f 


250  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

vided  there  was  no  intermission  in  the  run 
of  it. 

These  clever  managers  made  one  mistake. 
If  their  cleverness  had  been  a  little  more 
sharp-sighted,  and  could  have  looked  a  few- 
months  into  futurity,  it  would  have  been 
better  for  their  pockets.  I'hey  would  never 
have  rested  content  with  the  right  to  play  the 
I  Crook  in  one  city,  but  would  have  left  no 
stone  unturned  to  secure  the  right  for  all 
cities.  In  other  words,  they  would  have 
tried  to  buy  the  piece  outright.  Before  it 
had  been  produced,  Barras,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, would  have  snapped  at  an  offer  of  $10,- 
000  in  spot  cash;  a  month  afterwards  that 
sum  quadrupled  would  not  have  tempted 
him.  Reports  of  the  play's  success  had 
flashed  into  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
country.  Managers  were  flooding  him  with 
letters,  begging  him  to  sell  them  the  right 
to  play  his  piece,  and  before  the  Crook  was 
six  months  old,  it  had  placed  in  the  pocket  of 
Its  author  the  tidy  little  sum  of  $60,000  in 
royalties. 

Let  us  now  take  a  look  at  the  trouble  and 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  25 1 

the  money  the  Crook  cost  before  it  was  ready 
for  the  public  eye.  The  managers  were 
anxious  that  its  production  should  take  place 
about  the  first  week  in  September,  and,  to 
effect  this,  every  moment  of  the  intervening 
time  would  be  needed.  Unfortunately  there 
was  a  considerable  number  of  these  moments 
which  did  n't  belong  to  them.  The  Ravels 
held  possession  of  the  stage,  with  an  en- 
gagement which  had  six  weeks  yet  to  run, 
and  they  insisted  upon  playing  it  out.  They 
were  not  making  much  money,  either  for 
themselves  or  the  management,  yet  nothing 
but  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  could 
induce  them  to  change  their  mind,  and  can- 
cel their  engagement.  They  got  the  money, 
and  the  managers  were  then  free  to  go 
ahead.  The  old  stage  was  taken  out,  the 
earth  beneath  it  excavated  to  a  depth  suf- 
ficient for  the  dropping  of  scenes,  and  a  new 
stage  put  in.  This  was  a  marvel  in  its  way. 
Never  before,  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
had  a  stage  been  constructed  so  complete  for 
Its  purpose,  and  so  complicated  in  its  mechan- 
ism.   Its  cost  was  over  ten  thousand  dollars. 


252  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Before  the  curtain  rose  on  the  first  night 
of  the  Crook — September  10,  1866 — the 
management  had  laid  out  fifty-five  thousand 
dollars  in  its  preparation.  Their  bills  and 
advertisements  figured  the  sum  at  five  thou- 
sand less,  but  this  was  an  error.  The  ac- 
tual cost  was  not  known  on  the  opening 
night,  nor,  indeed,  for  some  time  after,  and 
then  the  sum,  in  round  numbers,  turned  out 
to  be  what  I  have  named. 

The  success  of  the  play  was  phenomenal. 
In  five  weeks — thirty-five  performances,  in- 
cluding the  matinees — the  box-office  gather- 
ed in  eighty-seven  thousand  dollars.  As 
the  running  expenses  for  that  time  were 
about  thirty-one  thousand  five  hundred,  or 
a  little  over  six  thousand  a  week,  the  Crook 
had  wiped  out  its  cost,  and  handed  a  little 
surplus  to  its  managers. 

There  was  one  thing  that  helped  materi- 
ally to  swell  the  success  of  the  Crook — I 
mean  the  stream  of  abuse  poured  out  upon 
the  play  by  the  New  York  Herald.  The 
cause  of  this  abuse  arose  out  of  a  quarrel 
between  Barnum  and  Bennett,  and  in  this 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  253 

way.  In  July,  1865,  the  showman's  mu- 
seum was  burned  to  the  ground.  Bennett 
fancied  that  the  site  would  be  an  eligible 
one  for  the  erection  of  a  new  Herald  Build- 
mg,  and,  before  the  ruins  had  fairly  done 
smoking,  he  opened  negotiations  with  the 
owner  of  the  land  for  securing  a  fee  title, 
and  also  with  Barnum  for  purchasing  the 
remainder  of  his  lease.  Real  estate  experts 
having  told  Bennett  that  the  fee  to  the  prop- 
erty was  worth  $400,000,  he  signed  a  bond 
agreeing  to  pay  the  owner  $100,000  in  cash, 
and  to  give  a  mortgage  for  $400,000  more. 
He  was  willing  to  pay  the  $100,000  over  and 
above  the  estimated  value  of  the  fee,  as  he 
was  anxious  to  commence  his  building  at 
once,  and  his  offer,  which  was  accepted,  pre- 
vented delay.  Then  he  went  to  Barnum, 
who  wanted  $200,000  for  his  lease,  which 
had  some  years  to  run.  After  a  good  deal 
of  higgling,  Bennett  agreed  to  the  price  and 
gave  him  a  check  on  the  Chemical  Bank  for 
the  money.  And  now  commenced  the 
trouble.  The  experts  who  had  estimated  the 
value  of  the  fee  evidently  knew  nothing  of 


254  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  existence  of  Barnum's  lease  upon  the 
property,  or  they  would  have  found  out 
what  he  asked  for  it,  and  deducted  the 
amount  in  making  their  estimate.  After 
their  error  was  made  known  to  Bennett,  he 
quickly  discovered  that  he  had  paid  too  much 
for  his  whistle.  Seven  hundred  thousand 
for  a  bit  of  land,  fifty-six  by  one  hundred 
feet,  was  a  higher  rate  than  had  ever  before 
been  paid  in  New  York  or  any  other  city  in 
the  world. 

On  finding  out  his  mistake,  he  immedi- 
ately notified  the  owner  of  the  ground  that, 
notwithstanding  his  agreement,  he  con- 
cluded he  would  n't  take  the  fee.  Then  he 
went  to  Barnum  and  told  him  he  had  no  use 
for  the  lease,  as  he  was  not  to  be  the  owner 
of  the  land,  and  therefore  the  showman 
would  greatly  oblige  him  by  handing  back 
his  $200,000.  But  the  worldly-minded  Bar- 
num did  n't  look  at  the  transaction  in  that 
light.  He  had  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and 
told  Bennett  that  he  intended  to  keep  it  there. 

"You  're  not  in  earnest,  Mr.  Barnum  ?" 

"Seriously  so." 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  255 

"Then  all  I  have  to  say  is  that  you  '11  re- 
gret it." 

After  the  fire  Barnum  had  taken  his  com- 
pany to  the  Winter  Garden,  where  he  was 
giving  entertainments;  and  on  the  morning 
following  his  interview  with  Bennett  he 
looked  for  his  advertisement  in  the  columns 
of  the  Herald,  but  it  was  n't  there.  Then 
he  sought  for  the  reason  of  its  omission,  and 
got  it  from  old  Bennett  himself: 

"Mr.  Barnum,  hereafter,  I  don't  want 
your  advertiseme,nt,  and  won't  take  it  at  any 
price." 

This  was  not  pleasant  information  for  the 
showman.  He  was  about  to  start  another 
museum  on  Broadway,  and  did  n't  relish  the 
idea  of  being  barred  the  use  of  its  columns, 
for  he  knew  the  value  of  the  Herald  as  an 
advertising  medium. 

"So,  he  won't  take  my  advertisement,  hey? 
Well,  I  '11  make  him  sweat  for  this,  and 
probably  change  his  mind." 

His  method  of  making  the  Scotchman 
"sweat"  was  this :  The  day  after  Bennett 
had  refused  his  advertisement  he  called  a 


256  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

meeting  of  the  Board  of  Associate  Mana- 
gers, and  told  them  of  Bennett's  action,  and 
then  made  a  motion  that  all  the  managers, 
m  a  body,  withdraw  their  advertising  and 
printing  from  the  New  York  Herald.  The 
motion  was  carried,  with  but  two  dissenting 
votes — William  Wheatley's  and  Lester  Wal- 
lack's.  Then  another  motion  was  made  and 
carried :  "All  of  our  future  advertisements 
m  the  other  papers  shall  bear  the  headline : 
'This  establishment  does  not  advertise  in  the 
New  York  Herald/  " 

Whether  all  this  caused  the  Scotchman 
to  lose  any  of  his  perspiration  or  not  I  can- 
not say ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  did  n't  part 
with  enough  of  it  to  make  him  change  his 
mind  and  insert  the  showman's  advertise- 
ment. 

In  the  meantime  the  heads  of  the  Crook's 
managers  were  full  of  conjecture  regarding 
the  course  the  Herald  would  take  toward 
the  play  when  it  was  produced.  As  they 
looked  for  no  praise,  there  was  but  one  of 
two  things  they  could  expect — silence  or 
abuse.    They  preferred  the  latter,  and  got  it. 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  257 

Now,  if  the  purpose  of  Bennett's  diatribes 
was    to    prevent   the  success  of  the  Crook, 
that  purpose  lamentably  failed.     But  I  can- 
not believe  or  imagine  that  the  shrewd  old 
Scotchman  had  any  such  intention.    He  had 
lived  a  newspaper  man  long  enough  to  know 
the   foibles  of  human  nature,  and  also  to 
know  that  since  the  days  of  Adam  and  Eve 
curiosity  has  been  its  mainspring.     There- 
fore I  think  that  his  columns  of  vituperation 
were    meant    to    help,    and  not  injure,  the 
Crook.     There  is  no  doubt  that  he  knew  of 
Wheatley's  friendly  disposition  toward  him 
and  his  paper — as  evidenced  at  the  meeting  of 
the  Board  of  Managers — and  as  he  could  n't, 
with  consistency,  puff  the  play,  he  took 
plan  which  he  thought  would  prove  quite  as 
effective    in    stirring    up    the  curious,  and 
crowding  them  within  the  doors  of  Niblo's. 
The  following  is  a  sample  of  the  Herald's 
abuse,  and  I  venture  to  say  that  if  Bennett 
had    asked    the    managers    of    the    Black 
Crook  to  pay  for  a  few  more  samples  of 
the  same  sort,  he  could  have  commanded 
his  own  price,  whatever  it  might  have  been : 


258  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"Nothing  in  any  Christian  country,  or  in 
modern  times,  has  approached  the  indecent 
and  demoraHzing  exhibition  at  Wheatley's 
Theatre  in  this  city.  The  Model  Artists  are 
more  respectable  and  less  disgusting,  because 
they  are  surrounded  with  a  sort  of  mystery 
— something  like  a  veil  of  secrecy — which 
women  do  not  look  behind,  and  men  slip  in 
stealthily  to  see.  But  the  almost  nude  fe- 
males at  Wheatley's  are  brought  out  boldly 
before  the  public  gaze 

"Of  course,  Wheatley  is  making  money. 
It  is  just  such  a  spectacle  as  will  make  an 
excitement,  and  draw  those  crowds  of  loose 
characters  and  people  with  morbid,  pru- 
rient tastes,  which  may  be  found  in  all  large 
cities.  Then  there  are  a  great  many  people 
who  come  in  from  the  surrounding  country 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  this  new  thing.  We 
must  not,  therefore,  give  credit  to  our  cit- 
izens for  being  the  only  supporters  of  the 
shocking  performance.  It  gets  a  great  deal 
of  support  from  the  countrymen  who  come 
to  town  expressly  to  see  the  'elephant.'  .... 

"Nothing,  as  we  have  said,  has  been  wit-^^ 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY. 


259 


nessed  in  a  theatre  in  modern  times  so  in- 
decent as  this  spectacle.  We  can  imagine 
there  might  have  been  in  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah such  another  place  and  scene,  such 
a  theatre  and  spectacle  on  the  Broadway  of 
those  doomed  cities  just  before  fire  and  brim- 
stone rained  down  upon  them,  and  they  were 
buried  in  the  ruins. 

"There  was,  too,  we  believe,  similar  places 
and  scenes  in  Pompeii  just  as  that  city  was 
buried  beneath  the  eruption  of  Vesuvius. 
We  may  be  saved,  perhaps,  from  a  like  fate 
on  account  of  the  many  good  people  there 

are  in  New  York But  that  does  not 

do  away  with  the  guilt  of  tolerating  or  per- 
mitting such  an  exhibition  to  exist  as  that 
at  Wheatley's.  Our  respectable  citizens 
should  cry  it  down,  and  the  police  should 
arrest  all  engaged  in  such  a  violation  of  pub- 
lic decency  and  morality 

"Let  husbands  and  parents  and  guardians     \ 
who  value  the  morals  of  their  wives,  their 
daughters,  and  their  wards,  bear  a  watchful 
eye,  and  keep  them  out  the  walls  of  Niblo's 
during  the  rein  of  the  Black  Crook 


Y 


18 


26o  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

"If  any  of  the  Herald's  readers,  in  spite 
of  its  warnings  and  advice,  are  determined 
to  gaze  on  the  indecent  and  dazzling  bril- 
liancy of  the  Black  Crook,  they  should 
provide  themselves  with  a  piece  of  smoked 
glass." 

But  the  Herald's  abuse  was  not  the  only 
spur  to  the  curiosity  of  the  public.  The 
Rev.  Charles  B.  Smyth,  of  New  York,  made 
I  use  of  all  his  pulpit  oratory  to  prevent  the 
pure  innocence  of  the  Gothamites  from  be- 
ing soiled  by  coming  in  contact  with  the 
Black  Crook.  Two  months  had  passed 
since  its  production,  and  with  no  falling  off, 
but  rather  an  increase,  in  its  popularity  and 
power  of  attraction.  "Now,"  thought  the 
reverend  gentleman,  "it  is  high  time  for  me 
to  step  in,  or  Beelzebub  and  his  show  will 
gobble  up  the  whole  city." 

So  he  stepped  in  by  renting  the  Cooper  In- 
stitute and  preaching  a  sermon,  the  text  of 
which  was  'The  Nuisances  of  New  York, 
Particularly  the  Naked  Truth."  The  ser- 
mon was  a  remarkable  one,  especially  for  the 
quality    of    its    hell-fire— an  article,  by  the 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  26 1 

way,  which  is  said  to  have  no  terrors  for  the 
New  Yorker.  This  may  be  a  slander,  but, 
whether  it  is  or  no,  Smyth's  brimstone  was 
not  the  sort  of  stuff  to  frighten  a  Gotham- 
ite  away  from  Niblo's.  Here  is  a  specimen 
of  it: 

"But  our  chief  concern  to-day  is  with 
the  dancing,  theatrical  representations,  and  . 
of  a  particular  establishment  which  has 
lately  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention. 
I  know  not  what  may  have  been  the  mo- 
tive that  impelled  the  gentlemen,  to  whom 
it  belongs,  to  get  up  its  sights.  Who  can 
tell  but  their  love  of  human  nature  in  gen- 
eral is  such  that,  from  the  most  generous 
impulses,  they  have  gotten  up  an  expensive 
and  dazzling  entertainment  purely  for  the 
purpose  of  lightening  the  cares  of  life  of  the 
busy  and  careworn,  by  giving  the  latter  an 
opportunity,  on  as  low  terms,  almost,  as  the 
most  extravagant  places  of  amusement,  of 
seeing  by  gas-light  and  hell-fire  light,  and  in 
the  bronzed  light  of  His  Satanic  Majesty's 
countenance,  and  in  the  red  glare  of  the  re- 
cording demon,  the  beautiful  countenances. 


262  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

resiilar  busts,  trunks  and  limbs  chiseled  out 
from  head  to  foot  by  Nature's  own  hand 
with  an  exquisiteness  of  perfection  far  sur- 
passing any  that  the  finest  art  of  man  has 
ever  wrought  in  Parian  marble,  with 
charms    more    bewitching  and  attitudes  of 

softness  and  luxury  most  fascinating 

Poor,  dear,  darling,  charming,  enchanting 
creatures ;  who  could  help  loving  them  ?" 

If  there  were  any  among  those  that  lis- 
tened to  this  sermon,  who  had  not  as  yet 
seen  "The  Naked  Truth,"  it  is  more  than 
likely  they  lost  no  time  in  taking  a  glimpse. 

The  reverend  gentleman's  crusade,  how- 
ever, came  to  an  untimely  end.  His  first 
sermon,  much  to  the  regret  of  the  Crook's 
managers,  was  his  last.  The  Trustees  of  the 
Institute  were  not  satisfied  with  the  char- 
acter of  his  brimstone,  and  refused  to  allow 
any  further  display  of  it  upon  their  premises. 
Moreover,  one  of  them  uncharitably  sug- 
gested that  Mr.  Smyth's  motive  in  preach- 
ing against  the  Crook  was  a  worldly  one — 
in  plain  words,  that  he  was  in  the  pay  of  its 
managers.    This  was  not  so.    I  was  in  a  po- 


WILLIAM    WHEATLEY.  263 

sition  to  know  all  the  inside  workings  of  the 
Crook,  and,  in  justice  to  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman, as  well  as  to  the  managers  them- 
selves, can  say  there  was  as  little  truth  as 
charity  in  the  suggestion. 

The  Crook  had  a  continuous  run  of  near- 
ly sixteen  months,  and  at  the  end  of  it 
Wheatley  retired  from  the  management  of 
Niblo's  with  three  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars to  his  credit.  Ambition  would  probably 
have  tempted  other  men  to  reach  for  more. 
My  friend's  ambition  was  not  of  that  stripe. 
He  thought  he  now  had  all  of  this  world's 
goods  he  would  ever  need,  and  was  content. 
Never  again  did  he  indulge  in  theatrical 
"flyers,"  for  he  was  aware  of  the  uncertainty 
that  surrounds  them.  Age  was  creeping 
upon  him,  and  he  was  too  mindful  of  his 
declining  years  to  further  flirt  with  Fortune. 
True,  she  had  been  kind  to  him  of  late — 
"more  kind  than  is  her  custom ;"  but  he  knew 
her  for  a  wayward  wench,  and  was  not  dis- 
posed to  give  her  the  chance  of  changing  her 
mind,  and  filching  from  him  that  which  she 
had  been  so  slow  to  grant. 


264  WAGS  OF  THE  STAGE. 

And  now,  having  spun  my  narrative,  and 
perhaps  to  a  tedious  length,  let  me  close  with 
a  word  or  two  in  memory  of  him,  the  sub- 
ject of  it.  William  Wheatley  no  longer 
lives,  but  while  he  did  he  had  every  attribute 
to  catch  and  hold  the  respect  of  those  who 
knew  him.  It  is  true  he  had  his  frailties — 
which  of  us  has  not? — but  "take  him  for  all 
in  all"  he  was 

In  truth  a  man  of  men ;  of  sense  refined ; 
Whose  gentle  mien  betrayed   the  polished 

mind; 
As  actor,  too,  where  stands  his  peer  to-day 
In  Comedy,  or  Farce,  or  five-act  play? 
The  Stage  now  grieves  his  loss — the  Art  he 

graced 
Will  wait  in  vain  to  see  the  loss  replaced. 


X_ 


Los  Angeles 

i 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

^....  iJ  V  ^ 

- 

IP  URL       , 

URt 

1 

4# 

VEU    SEP  05 

IL  B-19-^ 

1985v  X ' 

!r,oQl985 

• 

n  L9-Series4939 

^ 


2217 
W6lw 


UC  SOUTHERfJ  REGIOrjAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


1 

1  II 1 

1' . 

lii 

1 
II 

III 

1 

III 

1  ill 

If 

j 

II 

,1 

II 

[ 

lii 

AA    000  410  865    0 


